TravelStream™ news feed for member wendyworld on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/wendyworld en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Tue, 22 Sep 2009 08:56:04 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/3/1253622024/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/3/1253622024/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/3/1253622024/tpod.html Tue, 22 Sep 2009 08:56:04 -0400 Medan

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Medan, Sumatera Utara, Indonesia

Still living in Medan and not doing much but working and planning for my next adventure to Thailand, Myanmar and Cambodia in December. I did buy a new netbook though, and have been spending a lot of time with it writing stories in the garden under my thatched palm roof. I've been inspired a lot by the people I've come to know here in Sumatra. The trials, tribulations and adventures of my Indonesian friends are unlike any a westerner could ever experience.One can only imagine... which is what I have tried to do here. A Boy and a Boat is the result of a true story told to me by a friend, embellished by my imagination and fortified with research on the plight of refugees fleeing their countries with the hope of a better life. It still needs some work, I think--just wanted to get it out there. A Boy and a Boat&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The boat rocked gently on the waves, like a cradle. It would have comforted the boy, but he was too scared. He was huddled beneath the fishing net, heart flopping in his chest like a landed fish, trying not to shake with fear. The net reeked of fish, and it made him want to throw up. He tried to stifle his gag reflex, but the more he tried to suppress it, the more he wanted to be sick.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The engine of the boat next to theirs growled and churned in the water.&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "Just fishing, officer," he heard the man say. “Maybe I will get a good catch this time. But you know how it is. Not as much fish these days.”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “What is your name?”“Azhar, Sir.”“Well, Azhar, you are about to enter international waters. Are you aware of that?"“Sorry, Sir, I was not.”“Do you have any others aboard?”“No, Sir. Just me and the fish. Trying to get a few more. My family is depending on me.”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The boy didn't move a muscle. His legs were cramped beneath him and they twitched with the effort of keeping still. The bottom of the boat was hard and rough against his thin, light frame. A rib of the boat pressed painfully against his knee. Next to him beneath the net was an older man curled up in a fetal position. He bent his head to the bottom of the boat and didn’t move. On his other side was a young boy, screwing up his face with a mixture of fear and effort to be still. He’d come with his mother, the only woman aboard. Nobody dared breathe nor speak. The water slapped a rhythm against the hull. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I don’t want to see you out this far again,” the officer said.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “No, you won’t. Thank you, Sir.”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; With a roar, the engine shifted gear and the patrol boat sped away. As the sound faded into the distance, the boy slowly let out his breath. The others stirred in the net, coughing softly from the strong fishy odor.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Ya, Allah! That was close,” the fisherman muttered. “Okay you can come out now but keep your heads down.”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The boy threw off the nets and took a big gulp of sea air. The other men emerged, blinking, heavy-lidded, in the fading light. Iridescent fish scales clung to their dark skins like sequins. They looked like they came from different places, though the look in their eyes was the same: fear. Fear of being caught and persecuted; fear of what terrible conditions they left behind; fear the hungry ocean that could, at any time, swallow this dilapidated, creaky old boat and everyone in it. The boy counted about 30 men in the seven meter fish boat. Thirty men and one woman. The mother of the young boy kept arranging her head covering protectively around her neck, keeping her sad eyes on only two things: her son and the horizon. The wizened old man, with fingers like gnarled roots, lit up the stub of his cigarette and chatted with the fisherman. “These days, I’m lucky if I could get one full net of fish in a day,” the fisherman was saying. “Once, when I was young and starting out with my father, the fish were so plentiful they ran from the nets like silver coins. Nowadays the real money is in people. People always need to get somewhere,” he said. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The boy drew the fresh ocean air into his lungs. It helped to calm his heart, which trembled like a bird on its first flight from the nest. The boy had never been away from his parents before, except when he went to school. He was only 16, leaving his family for the first time and under stressful circumstances because he didn’t know what would happen to him. He had left school only because his immigrant parents found that his exit visa had expired and there was no way to get out of the country legally. He had to return to his homeland by boat across the strait to get the necessary stamp in his passport. Suddenly he had gone from being a model son and student to an illegal migrant.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The fisherman yanked the rope and the engine coughed and spluttered into gear. The boat labored forward under the weight of its occupants, gunnels dangerously close to the surface of the sea. Behind them, land became smaller, more obscured by mist as they left it in the distance. A few ships sailed in the distance, faded as old postcards. Maybe there were pirates aboard, the boy thought. He’d heard stories about pirates who attacked fishing boats with machetes and took the captain and crew for ransom.Maybe the fisherman was really a pirate. He seemed a little shady, his eyes sunk deep in his head, his cheeks creased with deep wrinkles as he pulled on a cigarette. His eyes were furtive; they did not focus on the anxious occupants of the boat but on some imagined, fixed point in the distance. All around them was water. Only water. The old man offered the boy a cigarette. The boy had tried smoking only once before with his friends after school. He had taken a puff and almost choked up a lung. He wanted to look cool so he tried not to vomit as he finished the thing, but he didn’t want to smoke again after that. This time, however, the boy wanted something to quell his nerves, so he accepted the cigarette, an extra strong Gudang Garam, and lit it. The smoke rushed down to his lungs and up to his head within seconds, making him dizzy as it sailed through his veins.“You okay, boy?” the old man asked. “You don’t look so good.”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The boy nodded. He took another drag. The people huddled in tense silence as the sun descended over the sea. Nothing had materialized on the horizon, yet the mainland was gone. All borders had vanished, leaving nothing but ocean. As the night and its net of stars slipped over them, the boy watched the mother with the sad eyes. Her young son was curled in her lap, and she stroked his hair, telling him something in their own language. Watching this, the boy slumped against the fishing net, wondering if he would ever see his family again. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; From over the sea the echoing call came, rousing the people from their quiet anxiety. The crescent moon sailed and the stars swam. The voice sang a haunting song. It swept across the ocean and up to the sky. Soon it was joined by another. The voices seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, disembodied spirits that belonged to the sea and sky. The fisherman cut the engine and the boat coasted, gently rocking as the water licked its sides. The songs echoed all around them, holding them in the darkness.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; They were not sea sirens, nor ghosts. It was the <i style="">salat, the call to prayer. The boy had never heard it in this way before. Of course he heard it five times a day in Kuala Lumpur where he lived with his family, and before that during his childhood in Sumatra. These days he did not heed it as often as he did when he was smaller. He was too busy with his studies, trying to make something of himself. He was nearing the last year of high school, and grades were critical to get into the right university. If he could become a doctor, he would make his mother and father proud. So he studied hard, and donned his <i style="">kopiah to enter the mosque only on Friday, the holy day.&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The men were quiet, looking out on the water, listening to the haunting sound filling the sky. Normally they would go to the mosque, prepare with ablutions of washing their faces and feet. They would kneel in the prayer hall or musholla and face Mecca. Then they would kneel on their prayer mats and press their foreheads to the ground in supplication, their outer actions matching their inner in their repeated request for grace and pardon. They would say “Allahu Akbar,” God is great. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Don’t rock the boat!” the fisherman urged. “It’s too dangerous to pray like that in the boat. Be still or we’ll all drown.”&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; So they knelt, facing the west in roughly the direction of Mecca, filling the air with the murmur of prayer. &nbsp;The woman’s sad eyes were closed, but a tear had left its trail on her cheek. The boy prayed an additional prayer to Allah in his heart. “Please take us safely to the other side,” he said. “I want to live to make my parents proud. I don’t want to die out here.” He had heard the news reports of refugees from Sri Lanka and Myanmar, masses of people stuffed into boats that capsized before they could reach Sumatra's shores. He had heard of rogue waves that could rise up and toss boats as if they were mere toys, not full of human lives, spilling them into the sea. “If it is your will, Allah,” he whispered, “please allow us safe passage to the other side.” The engine wheezed and begrudgingly came to life. As they moved forward once more, the night enclosed them like a womb. “Where are you from?” the boy asked the mother.“Iraq,” she replied. “Iraq? Where is that?”“It is very far,” she said. Her eyes grew deep as she remembered her country. The boy remembered seeing something on television about a war there. There was video of bombs falling, like in a video game.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Where are you going?”“To Australia,” she said. “I hope to find a better life there.”“But is your family still in Iraq?”“Yes, child, though my husband is already in Australia. I am following him there. Once we get to shore, I must take another boat.”Her eyes were filled with worry. The boy did not to ask any more questions. He was just a boy, afraid of being away from his family. She had a lot more to worry about. He rested quietly near her and her son, and soon fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming he was a fish caught in a net, unable to breathe.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The call entered his heart and sustained his soul. Like a pillar, it propped him up and made him sit upright. It was still dark; the moon and stars sailed high above him. The voices echoing across the water, perhaps unheard by each other, blended in the night. The men stirred. The boy sat, wide-eyed. The air never felt so good in his lungs. The <i style="">fajr. Dawn was coming. They had been packed in the boat like sardines for over twelve hours. Surely land must be coming soon. He trailed his hand in the water, splashed his face. He peed over the side, and watched the trail join in the frothy wake of the boat. Something grabbed his leg and made him gasp. It was the old man, grinning. It was just a joke, but he saw himself going over the side and being left behind, maybe eaten by a shark or a big fish. They had almost made it. He couldn’t let something happen to him now.Then, as the sun rose, soft and faded over the misty skyline, something did materialize, a sea creature with hair: A palm-covered hill crested above them, hoary and ancient as a dinosaur. He was finally home after all these years. Except this time he was alone. And this time he was a man. He had made it on his own, guided by the song of both countries joining over the waters. When they landed he could have kissed the ground, except it was sandy and dirty. There was a hut on the beach, with some grim-faced men standing guard. “You cannot leave unless you give us more money,” one of the guards demanded. The weary travelers protested they didn’t have it. But when warned that they would be made to go back on the boat, they reached into their pockets for their dwindling funds. The boy gave the guard all the money he had. Somehow he would have to find his way to the city with no money in his pockets. But that was the least of his worries. He was back, and he was safe. &nbsp;The first thing he would do was find a mosque and give thanks. He had heard the call, and he would walk the right path from now on. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“What’s your name, boy?”“My name is Irfan.”The man tucked the money into his pocket. “Welcome to Sumatra, Irfan.” The sun was beginning to rise. The man stepped aside and let him pass. But he turned and waited for the mother and her son. “Mother,” he said, “May God be with you on your journey. I hope Australia is everything you’ve hoped for.”“Thank you, son,” she said. “God willing, it will be.”Then he walked alone, up the bank of the empty beach and into the grove of palm trees.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/3/1252214178/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/3/1252214178/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/3/1252214178/tpod.html Sun, 06 Sep 2009 10:37:42 -0400 Medan

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Medan, Sumatera Utara, Indonesia

I think one day when Patrick is all grown up, he should run for president of Indonesia. At the very least, I expect that whatever this young boy does with his life, it will be extraordinary.I first met Patrick a little over two years ago when I began teaching English at the Australia Centre in Medan. Patrick was a small, chubby kid in one of my English for Children classes—the most naughty and riotous children's class in the entire school. They won’t sit in their seats, their toys keep whizzing across the floor, and they tirelessly leap from their desks to sing and dance or swing punches at each other.They’re absolutely nuts, but I love them. Sounds crazy, but I do. They are exhausting, and I am far too nice to be a good disciplinarian (I’ve learned a few tricks since, but am still essentially a kid at heart and love to get down and play on the floor and crack jokes with the worst of them.) I love them because when I play music they sing their hearts out. And they are so interested in life, asking questions about everything under the sun, so I try to answer all of them as best I can. Patrick, with his big brown eyes, round belly and eager grin, is one of the naughtiest, most exuberant of all. He even got in trouble once for breaking the door in another teacher’s class. Like the others, he doesn’t mean to be naughty; he is simply filled with unbridled enthusiasm and energy. What really sets him apart, though, is his thirst for knowledge, unparalleled by any other student I have known. In every class we have together, without fail, Patrick sidles up to my desk in his elementary school uniform of maroon schoolboy shorts and white shirt with school badge on the pocket, bearing the faded remnants of previous lunches and schoolyard shenanigans. Then he proceeds to say the most astounding things."Miss Wendy!" he said one day. “Did any of your family members fight in the Second World War?”Slightly taken aback, I answered honestly, “Yes, Patrick, my grandfather fought in that war.”His eyes opened wide. “Really?” he said. “For England?”“Yes, Patrick, for England.”“Air force, Navy or ground troops?”“Ground troops,” I said. “Light infantry or heavy infantry?”I was truly stunned. I mean, this is a 10-year-old boy living in a small city in southeast Asia, halfway around the world from Europe! How could he possibly be interested, much less know about such things? Fielding Patrick’s increasingly sophisticated questions, I told him how my grandfather, who fought for the British Army, was shot in the head and left for dead on the field. He survived, but after that he was blind in one eye. Patrick listened intently, nodding his head and asking more questions like an experienced journalist on BBC World News. Then I asked him, “How do you know so much about the war?”“Reading, Miss! I love reading! Especially history!!”Now I don’t mean to overuse the exclamation marks, as I am wont to do in text messages and Facebook posts. But every one of Patrick’s statements warrants at least one, if not more, because he really does speak with that much enthusiasm. Patrick loves quizzes and constantly asks for them. “Please Miss! Ask me about current affairs! History! Anything!!”At first most of my questions were too easy for him. “Okay, okay, Patrick,” I said, searching for something that would really stump him. So I asked him about one of my favorite heroes of politics, whom I grew up reading about and admiring from so many thousands of miles away in Canada. “Who was the first female leader of a Muslim country?” I said, a little smugly, sure he wouldn’t get the answer.After only a couple of seconds’ hesitation, his face brightened as the answer came to him. “Benazir Bhutto!!!”It was at that moment that I knew that Patrick was, and is, truly special. In an educational atmosphere where most students cannot even locate local cities on a map, Patrick can discuss the most complicated of world issues, from both World Wars to the current perilous situation concerning Kim Jong Il’s nuclear arms testing in North Korea, in the manner that other schoolboys talk about their latest Pokemon card collection. Patrick is so smart that he recently skipped a level, leaving his other naughty but lovable cohorts behind. Last week he ended up in one of my new General English classes, where most of the other kids are in senior high school and twice his size. There was Patrick, still in his elementary school uniform, legs swinging under his desk and a bright smile on his face. “Congratulations, Patrick.” I said. “You are moving up the world!”“Thank you, Miss!” he said proudly. Then for the rest of the class he was the first to answer all the questions before the others even had a chance. He still bounded out of his seat to regale me with current affairs—this time regarding the recent re-election of Indonesian president Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono—to giggles of delight from the other students. The girl who sat next to him beamed at him warmly. Since then he has quickly become the class mascot, class clown, and head of the class all in one.There is one other thing I want to relate about Patrick. My fellow teacher Novalina had taught the class on the day the students were supposed to write about famous inventors. But Patrick, ever the original, had asked her if he could write about whom he most admired instead. So with her approval, he wrote the following essay, which I left intact, mistakes and all, because hey, there’s always room for improvement, even with the brightest kids. Besides, English is his second language, and to keep it just the way it is to preserve his voice, his knowledge and his wonderful character.<i style=""><i style="">Patrick DreamInspirated People<i style="">Winston Churchill<i style="">Before Churchill is famous Churchill born in 1895 and he borned from England kingdom. His father was from Queen’s nephew in that time and Churchill was started to school at 1908.<i style="">Early CarriersChurchill was a soldier. He fought in Sudan, Cuba and Spain, and Churchill was a lieutenant before he become parliament members from conservative party. <i style="">Famous JobAfter he became a parliament member he became a prime minister and that what job make him famous. When World War II the battle of Britain was started he says that the England was not lost with fired up to boost England people moral.<i style="">After german lose in Britain he meet with the big three (Churchill, Stalin, and Roosevelt) in Yalta conference and after germany lose everything the cold war began Churchill was sided with the west.<i style="">DeathAfter few times becoming prime minister he is death in 1955.<i style="">[big round smiley face inserted here : )]<i style="">“We are not lost.”<i style="">Winston ChurchillIn a time when most boys his age don’t admire anyone but the comic strip character Naruto, this kid is inspired by Winston Churchill. <i style="">Winston Churchill! I’ll bet 99% of the rest of the world’s population under age 20 hasn’t even heard of Churchill, let alone looked to him as a hero! If Patrick’s dream is to model his life after one of the world’s greatest leaders, then Indonesia could really use a leader like Patrick in future. Indonesia absolutely <i style="">needs someone like that—a strong leader with real integrity and the ability to inspire the nation to do great things. Patrick for President!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/3/1248095118/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/3/1248095118/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/3/1248095118/tpod.html Mon, 20 Jul 2009 09:19:31 -0400 Medan

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Medan, Sumatera Utara, Indonesia

Since I haven't been traveling much outside Medan lately I've been writing a lot of short stories that have been inspired by the natural world of Indonesia, its culture and people. This is a short story that I wrote based on my research on the traditional medicine of Indonesia, called jamu. Made from natural plant extracts, jamu is used both internally and externally for health and beauty, and there is a spiritual element to it as well. The story was inspired by a joke my Indonesian friend made about how some magic jamu would be just the thing to cure romantic problems! None of the characters are real, though I would call this fact-based fiction.The Magic JamuShe came down the street on her bicycle, the same as she did every morning, wearing a woven caping to shelter her face and a bright sarong covered in batik flowers. She was the color of fertile earth; her teeth were strong and white as she smiled at her neighbors and bid them good morning. Her slender hands, fingernails painted orange with the juice of imai flowers from a recent wedding, gripped the handle bars of her bicycle. Her legs worked round and round, sandaled feet curving over the edges of the pedals as she made her way into the city. On the back of her bicycle, a specially made box, painted turquoise, held an array of bottles. They clinked gently when she rode over a stone, their spicy rich contents swirling. Each bottle contained remedies her customers sought for beauty, health, vitality. Some contained tumeric, the colour of late afternoon sunshine and monks' robes, healer of inflamed livers, sore knees, and cancer. Some contained ginger, settler of stomach upsets, soother of heart troubles, slimmer of the body. Others contained tamarind, cleanser and calmer of coughs brought on by the chill of rain or constant drift of dust and diesel that blanketed the city streets. There were other remedies besides, including fresh rice water to soften the complexion and kencur root, to build strength. These medicines from nature, in an infinite variety of combinations to meet an equal number of uses, are jamu, the traditional medicine of Indonesia. Every morning she rose, like other jamu gendong, while the moon still glowed and the muezzin sang, to prepare these special healing remedies.Some bottles held secret elixirs from roots deep in the earth, or from flowers, fruits and leaves of plants she collected in the rainforest when she went on one of her gathering walks, then ground with a mortar and pestle as her mother had taught, and her grandmother, and her grandmother's mother. She prepared them carefully, at certain times of the month, when the moon was pregnant with light or dark with knowing. Further in the forest, away from her medicine hut, men squatted under the trees and howled with laughter, smoking clove cigarettes and making palm sap wine in old oil cans. They had their spirits to possess the body and she had her potions to heal it. She ground the herbs, uttering prayers, heart full as a spring. She mixed them with extracts of other berries, roots and leaves, thanking the forest for providing her with their essence. She placed the elixirs in bottles. Some she placed in moonlight, some in sunlight. These were her magic jamu.When her medicines were ready, she rolled a piece of banana leaf and placed it in the neck of each bottle as a stopper. Then she put all her bottles in the turquoise box of her bicycle and off she went to supply jamu to the people of the city, bringing them life and health. (And with the magic jamu sometimes love, sometimes wealth or happiness. That was how she was different from the other jamu ladies.) Her muscular legs went round and round. On the road that circled the outskirts of the city, she came to a clearing at the entrance to a kebun sawit, a palm oil plantation. The men who worked the plantation were resting beneath the palms, which were thick and shaggy with ferns and creeping vines. They called out to the jamu lady in greeting, and she stopped to mix the daily jamu they needed to keep them strong, to feed their slender, sinewy muscles and bring spirit into their tired bones. She carefully washed and wiped each small glass in her portable bucket and prepared beras kencur with raw rice water, fresh kencur root, a knob of tamarind, and a pinch of salt and red sugar. They tossed the jamu down the back of their throats and smacked their lips, feeling strength return to their limbs. They admired the jamu lady's strong white teeth and glowing skin, her curvaceous figure in the sarong. She was neither old nor young. She was ageless. "See you again, sister!" they said, pressing tattered rupiah notes in her right palm. She hopped on her bike and cycled down the dusty road, calmly peddling as yellow Angkot buses blasting dangdut music sped past, and motorized three-wheeled becaks bearing passengers loaded with children and vegetables from the morning market. In one becak sat a mother, sheltered from the rising sun, at her feet a plastic basket filled with kangkung, water spinach, with long slender leaves; hard round purple eggplants called terong belanda, and juicy avocado fruits she would blend with chocolate. Her children loved avocado shakes, but she had a hard time making them eat their spinach. She saw the jamu lady, who had made her body and womb strong enough to bear seven children. The mother felt old and tired after bearing so many children-too tired to make herself pretty any longer. She hadn't taken any jamu in a long time. Besides, with so many mouths to feed, she had very little money to spend on herself. She often went to the market in her old faded pink teddy bear pajamas, and this morning she had barely the strength to drag a comb through her hair. She didn't want to look in a mirror anymore because she would only see more strands of gray appearing in her once glorious crown of black, flowing hair. She was too busy making rice for the children's breakfast anyway. She felt so old...she knew her husband preferred to hang out with his friends playing chess, drinking coffee and watching the pretty girls go by.She waved to the jamu lady and asked the becak driver to stop. "Little sister," she called. "I feel so old and tired today. Your jamu has always made me feel stronger. But I need something special this time, and I know you can do it. Can you make me a special jamu that will make me younger and prettier? Maybe bring me more love? I know I have some life in me yet."The jamu lady smoothed her sarong over her hips and looked into the mother's tired, pleading eyes. Beneath them, two pouches had formed from lack of sleep. Her gray hairs had sprung from her bun, wild and unruly. Her youngest children clung to her heavy legs, gazing up with wide, wondering eyes. The jamu lady knew of just the thing to help. She cut fresh lime and squeezed it into a glass-vitamin C to rejuvenate the skin. She mixed in fresh tamarind juice and herbs for a woman's womb and added the juice of a flower plucked from the leafy heart of the forest. She pulled out a small glass bottle from beneath a cloth in her bicycle basket and added three ruby red drops. They spread in the juice like a sunset, or a bleeding heart. She handed the glass to the mother to drink. She sipped it slowly, her eyes closed. Her little boy played with his sister at her feet. She opened her eyes and blinked. The jamu lady smiled, satisfied. The mother's eyes had already cleared to the colour of kayu manis, cinnamon. "Thank you, little sister," she said, and gave her three tattered one thousand rupiah notes. Then she climbed back onto the becak with her children and her basket of fresh vegetables, and disappeared with a puff of smoke into the gathering traffic of the morning, the cacophony of horns, honks and dangdut music. The jamu lady entered the city, which became more and more congested with traffic. Ucok's durians had been put out on the side of the road, the spiky fruits lined up like yellow hand grenades, their pungent odor detonating in the tropical heat. The teenager with the kaki lima cart had just arrived with his wares hanging in long strips of plastic packets-sparkly hair clips and headbands, velvet scrunchies embroidered with sequins, cheap necklaces that twinkled today but would be tarnished tomorrow, bejeweled brooches that women bought to fasten their jilbabs at their necks or to adorn their tunics. Dressed all in black, the youth sported hair that stuck out at fashionably odd angles, and his pants were so tight his legs looked like chopsticks. He strutted like a rooster and pouted like a rock star. But he was still good hearted and polite."Good morning, mother!" he called to the jamu lady, who set up her bicycle next to him to begin her morning trade in the market. The sun had risen above the buildings and begun to beat down on the blue plastic canvas umbrellas that sheltered the piles of kangkung, red chilies, green chilies, cauliflower, broccoli, red onion, garlic, pineapples, avocados, terong belanda, starfruit, mangosteen, rambutan, and passionfruit. Fans of overripe bananas hung from rusty nails. A rooster chased a scrawny chicken past a garbage heap of rotting vegetable peels. "Kukuruyuk!" the rooster shouted hoarsely after her, his beady red eyes firmly fixated on her feathered rear end. The restless youth swaggered up to the jamu lady, practicing his rock star pose. When she smiled, he forgot his self consciousness a moment. "You know, I wish there was something more for me other than this kaki lima," he said, scuffing his sneakers in the dirt. "I've got my own business here, and I'm grateful for it. Lots of girls buy this stuff because they always want to look good. But is this where I will spend the rest of my life?" He glanced around at the other market sellers napping beneath their umbrellas, or smoking idly and swatting at hungry flies looking for a free meal. He tossed his hair. "I want more than this. And, God willing, maybe I can get it."The boy's eyes searched the jamu lady's eyes. "C'mon, mother," he said. "Everybody knows your jamu is special. Could you mix a little something up to help me find fame and fortune? Maybe be a rock star? Please?" It was true, the boy was always singing at the top of his lungs in the market. And the girls thought he was pretty cute. Maybe he could make it if he worked hard at it. With a little luck...and some magic jamu. She nodded, and reached for the bottle of Coca-Cola. She added a splash of this and that from other bottles, remembering the recipe her mother had taught her. Then she reached in the front basket of her bicycle and found a second small glass bottle. She added five drops. Instantly the mixture turned green, the color of leaves after a monsoon, or fresh-minted American money.The youth took the jamu and drank. He made a face and tossed his hair. "Wah! So strong!" The jamu lady smiled. Yes, he would have to be strong. The magic jamu can only do so much. You must meet it halfway and keep up your end of the bargain, create space for the magic to work. The jamu lady did a brisk business in the market that morning. Soon almost all her bottles were empty. She packed her things, bid goodbye to the kaki lima rockstar, and hopped on her bike. She was on her way home to give her children lunch after school, attend to the garden and prepare a fresh batch of jamu for her afternoon route on the other side of town. But suddenly the sky darkened. Thunder rumbled deep in the belly of the clouds.Then the rain spilled out, gushing through the gutters and splashing on the streets. Lightning chicken-scratched the sky. Becak drivers covered their becaks with sheets of old plastic. Motorcyclists pulled over to wait out the rain under the eaves of buildings. The jamu lady did the same. She pulled her bicycle to the side of an empty building. It was still being built and the exposed rust-red bricks were not yet plastered over. Piles of bricks stood in front, and mounds of grey dirt used to mix into cement and cover the bricks. The workers, in tattered vests and pants, were gathered, smoking. They were staring hard at something. "Pssst! Pssst!" they hissed, like snakes. The jamu lady turned to see what they were looking at. The girl's skin was so white she looked like a ghost. Her hair was corn yellow and her eyes the colour of faded denim, or the painted bicycle box that held her jamu. The girl was tall, very tall. She stood in the doorway, shoulders stooped, her back to the smoking men. The jamu lady had never seen a white girl before. She couldn't take her eyes off her. She looked so strange! And even more ghostly in this haunted, empty house full of eyes. Even stranger, the girl was crying, harder than the rain was falling from the sky. The jamu lady's heart filled, looking at the girl in her predicament, all alone, with those men eating at her with their eyes, like tigers who hadn't seen a meal in weeks. Despite her shyness, she came closer to the girl and saw she was wet and bedraggled, her knee covered in blood. Her cotton blouse and army green pants were wet and dirty, as if she had fallen in a mud puddle. She carried a duffel bag and an old guitar case beaten up and covered with stickers. "I'm lost and I don't know where I am," the girl cried. "I'm supposed to go to some hotel, but the becak driver didn't understand me, and he just kept going around and around. So I got off, and after he overcharged me, I fell through a hole in the sidewalk and got all dirty and cut my knee..." She trailed off and broke into a fresh gale of sobs. The jamu lady didn't understand a word the girl said. One thing she did understand, though, was that she needed help. She patted the girl's shoulder to soothe her. She might have looked strange, but she was solid. Only a human being after all. The jamu lady couldn't be sure if it was the colour of the girl's eyes, but suddenly she could see more deeply into them than she could into eyes like her own, as if looking into the ocean. The girl became quiet, and allowed her to clean her knee and put a soft clean cloth on it. "You are so nice," the girl said. "I know I shouldn't be travelling alone, but I saw it as a kind of adventure, you know? I wanted to travel the world, go places where tourists don't normally go. But now I wonder. What have I done? What am I doing here?" The girl's eyes brimmed again. The rain wasn't letting up. The jamu lady nodded. She didn't understand the words, but she understood the meaning. So the jamu lady took matters into her own hands and mixed her final elixir of the day. She added seven drops from another small bottle in her bicycle basket. The jamu was bright as an orange, or a smile. The girl hesitated, but took a tiny sip. "Mmm," she said, and drank the rest. * * *The magic jamu works in mysterious ways. You may drink it with a wish in your heart but, like a prayer, it may not be fulfilled in the way you expect. The magic transforms from one person to another. Like giving, it flows. The final outcome is the result of an invisible alchemy, the interplay of emotion, desire, fate and free choice-and the hand of the jamu lady who mixes the medicine. With the jamu lady's cure, the girl eventually found her way. Soon after she drank it the clouds cracked open, but this time the sun appeared like the bright, fresh yolk of an egg. The jamu settled the girl's stomach (that was the ginger). She felt a peace descend upon her. Suddenly, she didn't seem so alone. In this city she was surrounded by people who said hello and smiled. They were curious and asked questions like, "Where are you going?" or "Where are you from?" She connected with people at mosques, churches, and temples. She decided she like the city and its motley assortment of people and riotous traffic, the sultry nights and sweltering days so different from the chilly northern country she had left behind. She liked the trees heavy with mangoes, the groves of palms in the middle of the city, the greenery clamoring over the gates, reclaiming its space. She had found her place in the world.The girl accepted a job teaching at a local school, and there fell in love with the children-their thick tousled hair and skin like chocolate, how their eyes lit with understanding when she planted a seed of knowledge in their minds. The girls wore candy colours and sparkles, and the boys hid toys in the pockets of their school uniforms. Sometimes she brought her guitar and played them songs. When loneliness threatened to return the young teacher thought of the children, and the kindness of the jamu lady who gave her medicine and helped her find her way. One day after class the young girl with the Minnie Mouse T-shirt who always loved to listen to the teacher play said, "Thank you, Miss! God bless you, Miss!" When the girl's mother came for her the teacher said, "Your daughter is a wonderful girl and a good student. You must be very proud of her."The mother beamed, showing a gap where one of her front teeth used to be because she spent all her money on her children's education instead of the dentist. She didn't understand the teacher's words, but she understood the meaning behind them. Her smile was so pure the teacher was struck by the beauty of the woman. The mother returned to her modest house on the outskirts of town with chickens out the front and laundry drying on the line. She stood a little taller as she entered. It felt good that her achievement with one of her children had been recognized. The good feeling spread from her head down to her toes. She loved her children, heart and soul. As she sat on the floor preparing spicy kangkung and tempe with rice for the evening meal, she felt her daughter's slender arms circle her shoulders in an embrace. "Momma, you look so pretty today," she said. "When I grow up, I want to be just like you."Later, the mother had an idea. She wrapped up some of the fresh dried rice she and her husband grew in their own paddy, enough for a month of dinners, and brought it to the school. Things started to look up for the kaki lima rockstar. He still peddled fashion accessories from his cart (one foot on the cart, two on his bicycle and two more at the end of his skinny legs made five feet, kaki lima). But by night he took to serenading young lovers as they sipped tea demurely together at roadside stalls, under the cool light of the moon and an LED lightbulb hanging from the tarp. He was a pengamen, although he preferred to see himself as a troubadour rather than a travelling singer, making a name for himself singing rock ballads and making a little more money. He even wrote some of his own tunes.A western girl had started coming to the market, only the second he had ever seen next to some girl in a music video on television who tossed her corn-tassel hair and writhed half naked with a python around her neck. As the schoolteacher hovered over rhinestone necklaces and velvet hair scrunchies, he wondered if she did the same in her spare time. But she was not that kind of artist. The teacher often bought small treats for her students as prizes. She bought fresh fruit from the market, and stopped for some jamu and a chat with the jamu lady. She was even beginning to speak their language. One day she had her guitar over her shoulder, and he asked her to play while he sang along. The people in the market stopped to listen. They smiled and tapped their toes. Later, she brought him the guitar. She had just bought a new one, and on a whim (she didn't know what possessed her), she thought she would give the old one away. She asked the kaki lima rockstar if he wanted it. Did he! He accepted the gift and began to play, teaching himself sitting on the front stoop of his house at night. Sometimes they sang together in the market and people gathered around. The jamu lady smiled and nodded her head to the rhythm. He started making a few extra rupiah. It wasn't a lot but it was more than he had before. "God is great," he said. "This is just the first step. One day, I will make an album."The jamu gendong returned to the forest to make more magic jamu from the roots, leaves and fruits of the plants there. As the men drank jungle juice under the trees, howling with laughter and falling off their tree stumps, she prepared fresh medicines for happiness, wealth and love. A happiness elixir that may beget the blossoming of a heart in a new city, a wealth elixir a new friend, a love elixir the eternal admiration of a child.You never know what you are going to get with that magic jamu.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/3/1247225187/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/3/1247225187/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/3/1247225187/tpod.html Sat, 11 Jul 2009 04:36:27 -0400 Medan

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Medan, Sumatera Utara, Indonesia

In the back of the bus, bouncing over speed bumps and potholes in the street, the old man reaches into a plastic bag, hands me a gnarled bulbous root as a gift.It is rough and dirty in my hands, just pulled from the earth. It looks like a yam, but the flesh is fresh and crispy white on the ends, revealing a glimpse of what is inside."<i>Ubi," the old man says. He is very thin, with few teeth left. He is probably not even very old, maybe only 50-something. I hold the word in my mind and place the ubi in my own plastic bag. My shoes are in it, but never mind. “<i>Terima kasih, Pak,” I thank him. “<i>Dari kebun anda?”Yes, he says. They are from my garden.&nbsp; He instructs me how to cook it. I am to cut it in small cubes and fry it, serve it with mie goring, fried noodles. It is very nutritious, he says. I remember watching a documentary recently. Called "Lost in Palm Oil," it features the Orang Rimba tribal peoples of Sumatra's Jambi province who have been displaced from the jungle due to the lost of their homeland to palm plantations. Now starving on the fringes of society, they must scrabble to make a living without their traditional ways. One day they have good luck—they have found cassava root, a nutritious root vegetable, to eat. It will keep them another day longer.Ubi: cassava. The old man insists I take two more. He is proud they came from his garden. I am thankful for his generosity. I think about offering him money for them because I know he doesn't have much. But I also know he won’t take it. After almost two years in this land, I now know when not to insult someone with my own ignorance. It is a gift. The man presses the button on the roof of the bus and when it stops he slowly climbs down to the street with his bag. I continue on to work. The girls in the canteen smile when I show them my ubi, and confirm it is cassava. I have never had it before. Moments like this—the generosity of a neighbour who still adheres to the old ways, my friends' smile of recognition when I understanding something new about their culture, the opportunity to try something new—that is what keeps me here, a student of the world.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1230376260/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1230376260/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1230376260/tpod.html Thu, 05 Mar 2009 06:19:37 -0500 China Christmas

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Beijing, China

<i>I climb the stairs leading up from Sequoia Café and find at the top a crowd in rapt attention, listening to a young Chinese writer, her voice quavering slightly with nerves as she speaks. &nbsp; A woman leaps out of her seat and offers it to me. I've come to Garden Books to browse, but why not attend the reading? I thank her and sit. For the next forty minutes or so I listen to Karmia Cao tell her complex and lyrical story about the aftermath of the earthquake in Sichuan province earlier this year. The earthquake killed approximately 70,000 people and left almost five million homeless. &nbsp; &nbsp; Cao is a brave writer, especially for someone so young. She tells the story from the points of view of a grandfather, a young boy, and a news cameraman. The grandfather is trapped under the rubble, and the young boy, his grandson, carries his baby sister on his back for 13 hours to get help, leaving his grandparents at the side of the road. &nbsp; Men with cameras glued to their eyes focus on Karmia, capturing her gestures as she speaks. Shutters click as she stamps her foot to emphasize rain hitting the ground. Her writing shakes slightly in her hands. It reminds me of when I was a young poet in Victoria, Canada, giving my first reading, trying to control my body but the nerves taking over. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; In Karmia's story, the news cameraman arrives on the scene. One of the relief workers says to him, "Are you a volunteer or a journalist?" &nbsp; After a brief hesitation he replies, "A volunteer." &nbsp; "Well, get to work," the organizer says. "I have enough mothers to save. I don't want to have to call yours." &nbsp; With this scene, Karmia touches on a critical issue in journalism, that moment when the journalist must choose between being an objective eye witness or an active participant in the conflict or tragedy. &nbsp; I'm glad Karma has allowed the human being to take over the journalist. In any event, a true journalist is supposed to serve humanity. The story can always be told later, and with more insight than that of a mere eyewitness. &nbsp; I want to know more about this young woman with big ideas. I sense she is also a participant in her own story, that she might be the cameraman. Her accent sounds familiar; Canadian, in fact. The accent is becoming more obvious now that I have been away from the country for almost two years. It has a bit of a Scottish lilt to it. &nbsp; I reach for one of the books on display. <i>Ere. It's a book of poetry, not a novel of the people affected by the earthquake. Half is Mandarin, the other English. I flip to the back to find her biography. "Born in Xinjiang, China in 1989, Karmia spent her early years in Umumqui, Beijing, Qingdao, Canton and Hong Kong before settling in Vancouver, Canada." &nbsp; I knew it! Though she now studies at Stanford University in California, she seems, in an essential way, quite Canadian from her six years spent there. It's the international background, the accent, the brown leather cowboy boots. &nbsp; Karmia is also a journalist who writes for humanitarian organizations in her spare time. All this, and she is only 19 years old. I buy the book and wait for the crowd to clear before I speak with her. &nbsp; Sweet and unassuming, her personality seems unlike the powerful words inside her. She seems surprised and grateful that people have turned up to hear her speak. She writes in my book, "Wendy, happy reading! Take care! Thank you!" Her name is an indecipherable, writerly squiggle. &nbsp; &nbsp; The characters in her reading are all real people, she says. She met them when working as a volunteer in the earthquake zone with her father. It's not a book yet, but hopefully it will be when she finds a publisher. I have no doubt she will. She gives me her contact information so we can talk more later. &nbsp; I browse the books and finally find what I have been looking for in every bookstore for the past year since I read <i>Dreams From <i>My Father: Barack Obama's <i>The Audacity of Hope. Like Obama, Karmia represents a new consciousness in the world. A young person with an international background, she has a strong conscience and a certain kind of fearlessness to follow it. A citizen of the world. &nbsp; <i>As I paint these white canvases white. <i>You told me so: <i>A star will rise <i>From every cage we leave behind. &nbsp; Watch for this girl. She's going to do good things.&nbsp; &nbsp; *** <i>Verse excerpted from "Amen" by Karmia Cao, in her book, Ere<i>. &nbsp; Garden Books: 44 Ganghua Rd, 2nd Ring Rd (E), second floor up from Sequoia Café. www.gardenbooks.com &nbsp; Email: gardenbooks@yahoo.com Phone: (010) 6585-1435
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1230124080/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1230124080/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1230124080/tpod.html Sat, 21 Feb 2009 08:37:36 -0500 China Christmas

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Beijing, China

We press our noses against the window of the rental van. A donkey bearing a yoke trots around and around the millstone in the front yard of a farmhouse, grinding flour. &nbsp; "That's the donkey for baby Jesus!" &nbsp; Ashley's smile spreads from one end of his face to the other. We burst out laughing &nbsp; Ashley's here! He came up from Shanghai, along with Kevin, Kent and Jay, to spend Christmas in Beijing. They blew in with the Siberian wind on the coldest day of the year, teeth rattling with the shivers. Today it's wamer, and we're going to see the Great Wall of China. &nbsp; It's an hour and a half drive from Beijing. We didn't want to go to Badaling, the more touristy spot. I've heard it even has a KFC. Instead, we have come to Mutianyu, a bit further away. &nbsp; The landscape is yellow and dusty in the sun. A small village of grey brick hutongs is clustered at the bottom of a mountain, snug in its crook. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Kent is the first to see it. &nbsp; "That's the Great Wall!" &nbsp; My heart jumps. There it is, crowning the mountains over the tiled rooftops-mythical, the stuff of legend, one of the world's great wonders. We ooh and ahh. And we mean it. I didn't know what to expect, but I didn't expect to see this, the Wall as part of everyday life in a traditional village. &nbsp; Aside from the hawkers lining the main road, the village is quite un-touristy. Hardly anyone is here on this sun-soaked Christmas Eve. At the foot of the stairs leading up to the mountain (we could take the tram, but we are feeling energetic) an old man is sitting on a chair, smoking from a carved wooden pipe the size of a mixing bowl. Between puffs, he shouts gleefully in Mandarin. I imagine he is saying something like, "Come one, come all! See the Great Wall of China, right before your very eyes! See the majesty of one of the Great Wonders of the World!" &nbsp; We huff and puff up the stairs. The Wall is just within reach. It looks mediaeval-I half expect to see the Chinese version of knights guarding it. Back in its heyday, it was guarded by thousands upon thousands of men. &nbsp; According to legend, says Kevin, Manchu warriors managed to invade China when a general left the door open. Imagine all those thousands of miles of Wall built on blood sweat and toil to keep out the enemy, then someone goes and leaves a door open. What a git. &nbsp; At the top of the stairs, an old weatherbeaten man peeks out of the entrance. &nbsp; "Beer!" he calls. His voice is sharp in the clear mountain air. "So cool and refreshing! You want beer!" &nbsp; Ashley and I look at each other. The old man smiles hopefully, a toothy grin. "Yes!" he urges. "Beer is good!" &nbsp; Unbelievably, we decline. More unbelievably, Kent, even more of a party animal than Ashley, declines. We sense this is a day we will never forget. We want to keep our heads clear. Besides, there's no toilets and we can't very well pee on the Wall. And we're already drunk on the view. &nbsp; For miles and miles, as far as the eye can see in both directions, the Great Wall snakes along the top of the mountain ridges like a spiny serpent, faithfully hugging each curve and undulation. In the distant mountains, it clings precariously above precipitous drops, winding into the distance. &nbsp; We brandish our cameras and snap away to capture it. We trot along the Wall towards our goal-the top of the next peak where the tram takes visitors back down-leaving the old man to resume his place by the door with his cooler of snacks and beer.&nbsp; &nbsp; Kevin is a wealth of trivia. "There's a saying that for every brick laid, one man died," he says. We gaze at the bricks, so tightly and neatly set together. Thousands of miles, countless bricks laid by unseen hands...too many lives to even begin to comprehend. What a magnificent structure these people have created. &nbsp; We can't believe we're here. We are jubilant. We have the Wall almost entirely to ourselves. The sun is shining, and it's Christmas Eve. Every once in a while Kent throws out his arms and exclaims, "We are on the Great Wall of China!" &nbsp; We take photos of every possible angle. We prance and we pose. We put our arms around each other. We run up and down the steps, exploring the watchtowers. &nbsp; "Oop! Someone left the door open!" &nbsp; It's like we are twelve years old, filled with wonder at the world. This is me peeking out from the Wall! This is me posing against the Wall! This is me looking sexy in the arch of the Wall! &nbsp; I put my camera in my pocket awhile so I can really see. &nbsp; Here is a bird with a white throat singing in a tree. Here are the mountains, wearing shades I've never seen. Here are my friends, looking so happy. &nbsp; We pause and rest on the steps, breathe in fresh mountain air. No blaring horns, no city sounds. Just open space, the quiet rush of wind. It expands and creates a space inside me, filled with peace. &nbsp; We decide to walk back. We don't want the day to end. Poor Jay's feet are sore-she is so tiny and must walk two steps for each of our strides, but she doesn't complain. &nbsp; The sun is slipping behind the mountains. The old man sees us coming. He perks up, ever hopeful at the sight of thirsty travellers, and shouts the magic word: "Beer!"&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1229921880/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1229921880/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1229921880/tpod.html Wed, 18 Feb 2009 00:07:12 -0500 China Christmas

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Beijing, China

Today is winter solstice. Right on cue for the first day of winter, a strong wind blew in from Siberia and the temperature plummeted from zero to minus twelve. It was so cold that my fingertips froze in their gloves and I couldn't feel my nose. Each blast of wind ripped at my furry hoodie and took my breath away. &nbsp; I had planned to go to the Lama temple but was too cold to wander around much. I decided to cozy up with some books instead. I hopped on the subway and headed for the Bookworm, a library, bookshop and café in the Chaoyang district on the east side of town. &nbsp; The Bookworm's business card features a drawing of a cute red worm wearing glasses, curled up with a book and a drink on the table. "From the Illiad through quadrupeds...via Uzbekistan and Elvis...Beijing's own English lending library," the card says. It has a map on the back to show how to get there. &nbsp; &nbsp; The ice-cold wind pushed me through the doors. Inside, I found myself in a little corner of paradise. Every kind of book I could want is here-philosophy, current affairs, travel. Even poetry. The library has three rooms, each lined from top to bottom with books. I haven't seen so many English language books for more than a year. &nbsp; I found the section with books for sale-the lending library is really only good for browsing if you're staying less than a couple of weeks-and bought <i>The Travels of Marco Polo. While the general selection is smaller than at the Foreign Languages Bookstore, it does have the best selection of books on China that I have found. It even had <i>Red China Blues, by the Canadian journalist Jan Wong, a combination of history and her own personal journey through Mao's Cultural Revolution. &nbsp; &nbsp; In the middle of all these books, bespectacled expats sat with their laptops, gazing intently into them as if they were magic mirrors. I joined them and opened up my Vaio. Intermittently wrapping my hands around a warm cup of green tea, I tapped out messages to my family and friends on facebook, wishing them a Merry Christmas. &nbsp; Now I am writing this blog, and must change to present tense. I wonder if the other expats are writing blogs as well. All of us bookworms sitting here, posting our stories from Beijing, each adding our own points of view to the vast sea of information on the web. I wonder what they have to say about it...are we all writing about the Bookworm? No matter, my George Orwell couscous is here (all the dishes on the menu bear literary names). It doesn't have enough avocado on it. Never mind; time to tuck in.&nbsp; &nbsp; *** Open from 9am to 1am, the Bookworm has great hours for bookaholics. It's located in the alley behind Pacific Century Plaza, next to the Banana Leaf restaurant. Address: Building 4, Nan Sanlitun Road, Chao Yang District. Phone: 65869507. Web: www.chinabookworm.com
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1260943200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1260943200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1260943200/tpod.html Tue, 17 Feb 2009 00:35:43 -0500 China Christmas

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Beijing, China

With branches like dragon claws, the pagoda trees of the Imperial Garden open to grasp the sky. Near the Pavillion of Lasting Sunshine, an ancient cypress stands, its trunk distorted with protruding lumps. The earth is bare, though I imagine a profusion of peonies and chrysanthemums at the height of spring. &nbsp; I have just passed through the collection of halls and buildings that make up the Forbidden City. Beyond the entrance bearing Mau's portrait, they are lined in a north-south axis, and bear poetic names: the Gate of Supreme Harmony, Hall of Supreme Harmony, Hall of Perfect Harmony, Hall of Preserving Harmony, the Palace of Celestial Purity. &nbsp; The buildings are grand, to be sure. On the corners of the upturned eaves, dragons and mythical beasts are poised to fend off evil. The gold leaf on the paintings and studded doors is real gold. The scrolled roofs are topped with yellow ceramic tiles, the royal Imperial colour. Yet the terracotta colored buildings are mostly empty, gated at the entrances where the public gathers to take photos of their dim interiors. &nbsp; The city is filled with people taking photos. The Forbidden City is no longer forbidden-tourists have replaced the countless numbers of concubines, eunuchs, workmen and servants who once lived here to serve their emperor, known as the Son of Heaven. In imperial times, nobody but the emperor used the center gates; now thousands pass through. There's an interesting story about the Forbidden City. Shortly after it was founded by the Yongle Emperor in 1420, he invited ambassadors from 60 countries to come and dwell here for several months.China's foreign guests were still in the city when the emperor found his favorite concubine had an affair with a eunuch. &nbsp; This kind of behavior wouldn't have been surprising. As emperors before and after him, the Yongle Emperor had thousands of concubines--so many that he couldn't possibly attend to them all. It would be natural for them to develop relationships with the only men available to them. &nbsp; Of course the emperor didn't see it that way. Known for his paranoia and cruelty, he expected complete loyalty, and woe to those who succumbed to temptation! In a jealous rampage, he had almost 3,000 concubines and eunuchs killed, then covered up the carnage with secrecy while his unsuspecting guests remained. Yet the night after the massacre, only 100 days after the opening of the Forbidden City, lightning struck three of the palaces and burned them to the ground--one might think retribution from the dead. The emperor died a few years later, partly from depression, filled with remorse at the atrocities he had committed. &nbsp; &nbsp; So many ghosts and many intriguing stories remain within these walls-enough to rival any medieval castle in Europe. In the Imperial Garden, I imagine the women summoned here to be chosen for the emperor's concubine collection, arranged like dolls among the flowers, hoping to catch the his eye. I imagine them looking at the same cypress trees standing here today, and feel sorry for them and the life of loneliness and fear they would lead. &nbsp; Among the trees the tourists flow, smiling and chatting, exploring all the nooks and crannies of the courtyard, pausing to stop at the rock formations that look like mini mountains. The sign says, "Perilous hills. No climbing please." So polite and civilized! And we are free to walk out of the northern gate and explore the parks beyond, unlike many of those who lived within these walls. &nbsp; Some things really do change for the better. &nbsp; &nbsp;
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1233573060/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1233573060/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1233573060/tpod.html Tue, 17 Feb 2009 00:34:01 -0500 China Christmas

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Beijing, China

Along the eastern wall of the Forbidden City, lanterns hung in swags down narrow alleys and from the tree branches, casting a warm glow upon the smoky grey of winter. In snug alcoves, art galleries displayed watercolors of koi splashing in ponds and pandas rolling in bamboo forests; souvenir shops sold mittens and red good luck ornaments woven with gold thread; restaurants served savory pancakes and steamed buns from smudged front windows. &nbsp;Peter pointed out a red neon sign, the Chinese character for satay, a specialty of the Uyghur people from western China. The sign for "satay" literally looks like pieces of meat threaded on a stick. &nbsp;Chinese is the language for art lovers. The beauty of it is that the characters are pictures abstracted from the object or idea they represent. Peter told me of a study conducted on the brains of Chinese people. The study found that the Chinese language engaged the readers' right side of the brain, used for creativity and nonlinear thinking. In Western culture, the left, or logical side of the brain is used. So much for the stereotype that Chinese people are all business.&nbsp;We turned right and found the Donghuamen night market, a line of hawker stalls near Beijing's up-market shopping district, Wangfujing Road.&nbsp;Wearing red smocks and matching visors, the hawkers tried to entice us with their wares, holding up creatures both mysterious and vile impaled on wooden skewers as if they were the most delightful delicacies on earth.&nbsp;"Snake! Snake! Snake! Try it! You like it!" &nbsp;"Silk worm! Yummy silk worm!"&nbsp;The snake meat lay on trays, pale, glossy bellies hacked apart and exposed. The silkworms appeared fat, brown and crispy. Scorpions, spiked through the mouth and arranged in neat rows, looked like something I would rather spray with a can of Raid than put in my mouth. &nbsp;Other strange edibles included starfish and organ meats shaped conspicuously like livers and kidneys. I noticed that while the tourists showed off their daring by eating this macabre cuisine, the Chinese seemed to be eating normal things like soup and candied fruit kebabs. &nbsp;We moved on to Wangfujing Rd., open only to pedestrian traffic, which was almost as bad as a real traffic jam, and infused with western tourists. All the usual suspects can be found here-McDonald's, KFC, Versace, Burberry. But Peter had something else in mind-the Foreign Languages Bookstore. &nbsp;I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. English books abounded, from the usual large selection of classics, safe from China's censors, to history books on China and the latest literary selections. I'm careful when buying books. Where I live in Sumatra, Indonesia, English books are hard to come by. I could easily spend all my money on them and go over the luggage weight limit if I'm not careful. I don't want to buy something I could borrow from a friend, I and also want reference material for my writing.&nbsp;I settled on <i>Among the Believers: An Islamic Journey, by V.S. Naipaul, a writer from Trinidad who won the Nobel Peace Prize for literature. The book portrays Muslim people living in various Islamic countries, including Indonesia. The portraits of the people seem intimate and revealing, the result of a six month journey of interviews. I am curious if his view of Islam is in any way similar to mine. Some of my closest friends in Indonesia are Muslim and are among the gentlest, most humorous people I know.&nbsp;I had to stop myself from buying any more books, but we spent well over an hour there-Peter is as much of a bibliophile as I am. So many books, so little time. I could (and do) spend all day with the beauty of language as a teacher, a writer, a book lover. And in language-the rhetoric of the Revolution, the artful characters, the colourful "Chinglish" spoken here-I have found both Beijing's dark side as well as its creative, humourous side. I have found food for thought, food to turn my stomach, and food for the soul. &nbsp;Not bad for just one day.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1261285380/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1261285380/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wendyworld/2/1261285380/tpod.html Tue, 17 Feb 2009 00:32:35 -0500 China Christmas

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Beijing, China

There was once, at the end of the Qing Dynasty, a notorious empress. She rose from a childhood of genteel poverty and neglect to become the emperor's favorite concubine, and, eventually, ruler of the Middle Kingdom. &nbsp; Empress Cixi, known by some as the Dragon Lady, was the last empress of China. &nbsp; Stories about her abound, though she remains cloaked in mystery. Some paint her as evil and power hungry, and blame her for the collapse of the Qing Dynasty at the turn of the 20th century. "One of the ancient sages of China foretold that China will be destroyed by a woman. This prophecy is approaching fulfillment," wrote London <i>Times correspondent George Ernest Morrison, whose dispatches from China fascinated the British public.. &nbsp; Others have ben more empathetic, arguing the Qing Dynasty was already in decline due to western colonialism, and that her reputation was badly tarnished by her many political opponents who believed a woman should not wield so much power. "[Cixi] has shown herself to be benevolent and economical," wrote Charles Denby, an American envoy to China in 1898. "Her private character has been spotless." &nbsp; Later it turned out that Morrison's reports were basely largely on false information fed to him by a con man who proclaimed to know the empress. Despite the revelations, somehow the "dragon lady" reputation stuck, and she has remained subject of fascination since her death in 1908. &nbsp; Today I am at Empress Cixi's summer palace, to the west of Beijing. Rimmed by misty mountains and set among classical Chinese gardens, the Summer Palace is set like a jewel in the trees, part of the natural landscape that surrounds Kunming Lake. The empress spent much of her time here, where she bore the Emperor's only son and heir, and later dealt with matters of state and hosted visiting dignitaries.&nbsp; &nbsp; No wonder she loved it; the lake is beautiful. Sunlight glows on its frozen surface. People walk out into the middle like tiny figures in a Chinese painting. In the distant hills, two pagodas appear in the mist like long-lost lovers. Near the shore, reeds poke through the ice. &nbsp;In the north, the Summer Palace, home to Empress Cixi, stands out from the hillside. Leading there is a covered walkway where the empress must have walked, clothed in fine robes, ornaments in her hair. Now, mothers attend to their much-adored single children, bundled up in bright candy-coloured parkas. Families gather for an afternoon snack of noodles, biscuits and tea from the cafes. Dutiful daughters push their elderly parents in wheelchairs. &nbsp; There are so many things to see, so many diversions. Souvenir shops sell Russian nesting dolls, glass bead bracelets, Cloissone boxes of intricate copper inlay, and hand painted paper umbrellas. At the Hall of Dispelling Clouds, where the empress stayed on her many visits from the Forbidden City, the entrance is flanked by statues of long-necked cranes and graceful deer with branches in their mouths, symbols of longevity.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; Like other buildings here, the hall was ransacked by the English and the French armed forces in 1860, yet another victim of colonialism and a painful reminder to the Chinese of a time when they lost some of their most valuable treasures to the west. In part, it explains why Cixi was so staunchly anti-western and refused to allow modernization to take place It also explains why Communism later took hold, to regain a sense of order to the country and protect it from western influences. &nbsp; The buildings have since been painstakingly restored, including the octagonal tower on the hill, the Tower of Buddhist Incense which houses a five-meter tall Guanyin bodhisattva, and the Hall of Finest Jade, where Cixi entertained on her birthdays. Fine vases and statuary, gifts from dukes, princes and cabinet ministers, line the windows. &nbsp; Cixi has been accused of embezzling navy funds to rebuild the Summer Palace for her own ends. It was she who spent a fortune restoring the gardens and the many halls, buildings and corridors that western forces burnt to the ground. &nbsp; The most contentious object is the boat Cixi is reported to have built at the navy's expense in 1893. Two-tiered, and made of marble with stained glass windows, it looks like a grand old Mississippi riverboat, built, despite her mistrust in things western, in the western style. The building of this boat, the guidebooks suggest, is believed to be her ultimate mistake, leading to the downfall of the Qing Dynasty. &nbsp; The boat, however, was already in existence. It was Emperor Qianlong who had the boat made; she paid to restore it, with a few flourishes of her own. Her motives may have been selfish, maybe not. The annals of history are almost completely dominated by men, including speculation on the empress. History has vilified her, but the evidence of her life here speaks only of beauty. &nbsp; What we do know is that this, the largest Imperial garden in the world, has been declared a world heritage site. What some may call the squandering of funds has helped to restore what was lost, and now thousands of tourists come here to enjoy it, dispelling the superstitious prophecies of China's downfall like so many clouds. &nbsp; *** TIP: Two fascinating reads on the life of Empress Cixi are the historical novels <i>Empress Orchid and <i>The Last Empress, by Chinese-American author Anchee Minn. Based on historical evidence and a woman's point of view, they provide an insider's glimpse into life in the Forbidden City and the Summer Palace, and what it must have been like to be a woman of power in what has been, traditionally, a man's world. &nbsp;
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