The young monks scurried silently around the open-air temple, passing out disposable cups and then filling them with butter tea. Unfortunately for all arteries involved, butter tea, a Tibetan staple, is exactly what it sounds like—hot tea seasoned with a large dollop of yak butter. The crowd, piled on the ground upon endless rows of cushions, was attentive to the tea distribution, but many also continued humming the mantras led by the Dalai Lama, who was seated with other important monks inside the regally adorned inner temple.
The three-hour ceremony, called a long life puja, is a centuries-old ritual meant to strengthen and purify the bond between a guru (teacher) and his students. The tea, followed by small plates of rice and, finally, a myriad of biscuits, bread, chips, and fruit, symbolizes an offering to the Dalai Lama, the most important guru for many Tibetan Buddhists. While the edible offerings are shared ceremoniously with the crowd, a queue of worshipers and government officials snaked out of the inner temple, waiting to present their fantastically wrapped offerings while the chants continued unabated (save the occasional microphone-enhanced cough and wheeze from an aging Dalai Lama.)
The Long Life Puja Fund explains that this ritual “purifies the relationship between teacher and disciple, and creates the merit for the teacher to remain among us. Since all realization depends on the blessing and guidance of the teacher, this ritual offering practice is extraordinarily precious.” Precious, but sweetly baffling to an American Catholic accustomed to unleavened bread—which I have to get off my cushion to receive!
At times overwhelmed by the proceedings, I noted in my journal that it felt like the only thoroughly foreign ritual I’ve experienced in all of my traveling. Somehow, the genuine students didn’t seem to mind my presence. During one prayer, a nun seated nearby showed a group of Brazilians and me how to contort our fingers together before having them filled with uncooked rice, which we tossed in the air for good luck when the mantra changed.
If I was out of place at all, others were there to deflect attention. The token psychotropic-drug-using hippie with graying, greasy locks walked in endless circles around the inner temple, his eyes nearly rolled back in his head as he clutched gaudy, psychedelic statues of gods in either hand. Truthfully, no one seemed that bothered by him, either. They were there to experience communion with their spiritual leader.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, the famously smiling Dalai Lama emerged from the inner temple, flanked by a colorful security force, dressed alternatively in ceremonial robes, three-piece suits, Indian military uniforms, or plainclothes. He managed to lean his hands out in blessing a few times as he walked down the aisle, and an interaction with some children to my right made everyone laugh. Because his likeness smiles down from every guesthouse, restaurant, and café in town, it seemed so natural to see him standing there, perma-laughter in his eyes despite his age. I confess I was moved only by the obvious spiritual tug felt by the community around me.
Footnote: In conversation class on Monday, I tried to find out what the specific chants meant, but the monks surprised me with smiles and abashed shrugs. “There are thousands of mantras in Buddhism, you can’t expect us to know exactly what they all mean!”
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Do nuns have fur? And other English adventures in Mcleod Ganj.
Gyatsen Choesang and Gyatsen Chodon share one small, blue-walled room just down the mountain from Mcleod Ganj. A gas stove surrounded by mismatched kitchen utensils and simple food sits on one end. Across the room, His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama smiles down from a bookshelf crowded with holy texts, Tibetan flags, and elementary English books. Seven small bowls are filled with water as a prayer offering, and a Pringles can full of incense sits on a small table, also surrounded by Tibetan regalia.
We’re sitting on Choesang’s bed, pronouncing our way through an animated children’s dictionary syllable by syllable. “Fur. Animals have fur. This dog has soft fur.” The nuns repeat the sentence slowly, and then look at me quizzically—what is this, fur? Illustrating that “fur” is the hair on animals, I touch some of my own hair. The nuns touch their neatly buzzed heads and laugh mirthfully. “Ours is much less fur,” they giggle. After about 20 new words, they offer me hot water and a basket full of butter cookies. We switch to reading a Tibetan children’s story, “Snowlion.”
Depending on how I phrase the question, Choesang fled Tibet when she was 16 or 25. She is in her thirties now, learning English so she can communicate with Dharamsala’s constantly replenished foreign community, and also so she can read Western philosophy to expand her studies. But first, we concentrate on the story of Tenzin, a poor firewood gatherer who receives a modest amount of gold from a magical stone snowlion, and his friend Tashi, who greedily tried to get too much gold, causing it all to disappear. The old legend feels familiar. It seems even possession-denouncing Buddhists can appreciate a good rags-to-riches-and-the-greedy-man-falls story.
I leave just before lunch and begin the trek back up to town from their room, a journey I hope to someday complete without wheezing audibly. The narrow path meanders past cows, goats, the occasional young Indian hoodlum who almost hits me with a firecracker (we both giggle when I jump), a tattoo shop that I’m sure doesn’t charge extra for the hepatitis, and a handful of locals I didn’t know six days ago, who now greet me with a cheerful, “Hello/Namaste/Tashi Delek/Where are you going?” Near the top of the path, a shop sign reads, "Daily Need's Shop," and the English nerd in me chuckles anew every day at the thought that the shop belongs to a Mr. Daily Need.
At the afternoon conversation hour, I hear Jason’s stentorian voice covering topics as varied as the American banking system, atheism, and thermodynamics with monks and high school students (he swears they asked.) I’m witnessing the strangest debate I’ve ever heard, between a middle-aged monk who thinks the world would be a better, more peaceful place without religion, and a teenaged lay Buddhist who insists that we need religion because it makes people feel good in their hearts and minds. The teenager is brave for taking on his elder, and his impassioned speech slips into Tibetan when he can’t find the words he needs to express religious ideas. Yesterday, I taught the word “intangible” to a group of monks trying to explain to me where the soul is located in the body.
Jason and I are tasting our way through the town, alternating between Indian, Tibetan, and pleasantly accurate, if not authentic, Italian food. With it’s delightfully earth-toned buckets of aloo splattered on roti, Jason commented that Indian food “looks like something they just found on the ground and made delicious,” which is probably a pretty accurate description of what happened. Tibetan food reflects the simplicity of ingredients available on the Tibetan plateau—you can even drink tea flavored with yak butter, for a truly authentic experience. A full meal for both of us, including chai, costs around three dollars.
We’re sitting on Choesang’s bed, pronouncing our way through an animated children’s dictionary syllable by syllable. “Fur. Animals have fur. This dog has soft fur.” The nuns repeat the sentence slowly, and then look at me quizzically—what is this, fur? Illustrating that “fur” is the hair on animals, I touch some of my own hair. The nuns touch their neatly buzzed heads and laugh mirthfully. “Ours is much less fur,” they giggle. After about 20 new words, they offer me hot water and a basket full of butter cookies. We switch to reading a Tibetan children’s story, “Snowlion.”
Depending on how I phrase the question, Choesang fled Tibet when she was 16 or 25. She is in her thirties now, learning English so she can communicate with Dharamsala’s constantly replenished foreign community, and also so she can read Western philosophy to expand her studies. But first, we concentrate on the story of Tenzin, a poor firewood gatherer who receives a modest amount of gold from a magical stone snowlion, and his friend Tashi, who greedily tried to get too much gold, causing it all to disappear. The old legend feels familiar. It seems even possession-denouncing Buddhists can appreciate a good rags-to-riches-and-the-greedy-man-falls story.
I leave just before lunch and begin the trek back up to town from their room, a journey I hope to someday complete without wheezing audibly. The narrow path meanders past cows, goats, the occasional young Indian hoodlum who almost hits me with a firecracker (we both giggle when I jump), a tattoo shop that I’m sure doesn’t charge extra for the hepatitis, and a handful of locals I didn’t know six days ago, who now greet me with a cheerful, “Hello/Namaste/Tashi Delek/Where are you going?” Near the top of the path, a shop sign reads, "Daily Need's Shop," and the English nerd in me chuckles anew every day at the thought that the shop belongs to a Mr. Daily Need.
At the afternoon conversation hour, I hear Jason’s stentorian voice covering topics as varied as the American banking system, atheism, and thermodynamics with monks and high school students (he swears they asked.) I’m witnessing the strangest debate I’ve ever heard, between a middle-aged monk who thinks the world would be a better, more peaceful place without religion, and a teenaged lay Buddhist who insists that we need religion because it makes people feel good in their hearts and minds. The teenager is brave for taking on his elder, and his impassioned speech slips into Tibetan when he can’t find the words he needs to express religious ideas. Yesterday, I taught the word “intangible” to a group of monks trying to explain to me where the soul is located in the body.
Jason and I are tasting our way through the town, alternating between Indian, Tibetan, and pleasantly accurate, if not authentic, Italian food. With it’s delightfully earth-toned buckets of aloo splattered on roti, Jason commented that Indian food “looks like something they just found on the ground and made delicious,” which is probably a pretty accurate description of what happened. Tibetan food reflects the simplicity of ingredients available on the Tibetan plateau—you can even drink tea flavored with yak butter, for a truly authentic experience. A full meal for both of us, including chai, costs around three dollars.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
My enemy is my own anger.
“I know all that’s true, but…”
“But meat is so tasty!” The young monk finished my sentence, breaking into a wide smile that accentuated his sharp cheekbones. His eyes shone with genuine amusement, instantly relived of the gravity they held as we discussed the case for vegetarianism. Although he was a teenager when he made his dangerous Himalayan trek to escape Tibet and enter a monastery, he didn’t give up meat until recently. “Once I fully understand that my body can be nourished without harming that other body, if I know I will stay alive without killing, it is bad for my karma to keep doing,” he explains in near-perfect English.
We met at Lha Social Work’s daily English conversation hour, where Tibetans, Australians, Canadians, one traveler from Finland, and we Americans sat in small circles and shared our thoughts on hobbies, politics, and lifestyle choices.
“You live in China? What is it like there? Have you been to Tibet?” A 29-year-old woman, also a refugee since her teen years, breathes this last bit excitedly, her eyes twinkling with envy, until I explain that I live very far from there, and foreigners are only allowed to go with a special permit as part of a tour group, which is very expensive. Still, the fact remains—I can go to her homeland legally, if with some effort, while she risks imprisonment or execution if she tries to return.
She and the monk are surprised to hear that many of my Chinese friends disagree with their government and don’t hesitate to dissent, at least in conversations with foreigners. They’re also interested to know that I couldn’t read anything about Tibet or Dharamsala without using a proxy to avoid government censors. As I explain my work in China and my motivation for going, I’m a little anxious. I knew this would come up, but I hadn’t envisioned the reality of looking into the deep eyes of two refugees on my third full day in India, explaining my relationship to their oppressor. Do they think I’m an ally to their enemy? Am I?
The monk seems to sense my discomfort. Without prompting, he offers his own beliefs about enemies, not arrived at without some effort. “My enemy is my own anger,” he says. “The Chinese have done bad things in Tibet, but the Chinese people are not my enemies. My only true enemy, keeping me from happiness, is my own anger.”
Less of a pilgrim than many of the dreadlocked, prayer-bead clasping Westerners in Dharamsala, I really just came here to be useful. So while it shouldn’t, jumping so quickly from politics to inner peace throws me. Really, he just takes out invasion and occupation on himself? Again sensing my unease, the wise smile returns, the big laugh as he clarifies, “Of course, it isn’t ever easy.” This student of Buddha confesses that sometimes, even though he knows violence will never beget peace, he is hopeful when he hears of Palestinian action against Israel (Local sentiment seems to stress solidarity between the situations in the two nations.)
As the hour ends, I concede that I have a lot to learn. Not least of all, some yoga basics would help me sit cross-legged for an hour like my partners without my toes falling asleep and my hips throbbing. Inner peace may follow.
“But meat is so tasty!” The young monk finished my sentence, breaking into a wide smile that accentuated his sharp cheekbones. His eyes shone with genuine amusement, instantly relived of the gravity they held as we discussed the case for vegetarianism. Although he was a teenager when he made his dangerous Himalayan trek to escape Tibet and enter a monastery, he didn’t give up meat until recently. “Once I fully understand that my body can be nourished without harming that other body, if I know I will stay alive without killing, it is bad for my karma to keep doing,” he explains in near-perfect English.
We met at Lha Social Work’s daily English conversation hour, where Tibetans, Australians, Canadians, one traveler from Finland, and we Americans sat in small circles and shared our thoughts on hobbies, politics, and lifestyle choices.
“You live in China? What is it like there? Have you been to Tibet?” A 29-year-old woman, also a refugee since her teen years, breathes this last bit excitedly, her eyes twinkling with envy, until I explain that I live very far from there, and foreigners are only allowed to go with a special permit as part of a tour group, which is very expensive. Still, the fact remains—I can go to her homeland legally, if with some effort, while she risks imprisonment or execution if she tries to return.
She and the monk are surprised to hear that many of my Chinese friends disagree with their government and don’t hesitate to dissent, at least in conversations with foreigners. They’re also interested to know that I couldn’t read anything about Tibet or Dharamsala without using a proxy to avoid government censors. As I explain my work in China and my motivation for going, I’m a little anxious. I knew this would come up, but I hadn’t envisioned the reality of looking into the deep eyes of two refugees on my third full day in India, explaining my relationship to their oppressor. Do they think I’m an ally to their enemy? Am I?
The monk seems to sense my discomfort. Without prompting, he offers his own beliefs about enemies, not arrived at without some effort. “My enemy is my own anger,” he says. “The Chinese have done bad things in Tibet, but the Chinese people are not my enemies. My only true enemy, keeping me from happiness, is my own anger.”
Less of a pilgrim than many of the dreadlocked, prayer-bead clasping Westerners in Dharamsala, I really just came here to be useful. So while it shouldn’t, jumping so quickly from politics to inner peace throws me. Really, he just takes out invasion and occupation on himself? Again sensing my unease, the wise smile returns, the big laugh as he clarifies, “Of course, it isn’t ever easy.” This student of Buddha confesses that sometimes, even though he knows violence will never beget peace, he is hopeful when he hears of Palestinian action against Israel (Local sentiment seems to stress solidarity between the situations in the two nations.)
As the hour ends, I concede that I have a lot to learn. Not least of all, some yoga basics would help me sit cross-legged for an hour like my partners without my toes falling asleep and my hips throbbing. Inner peace may follow.
Friday, January 15, 2010
An Afternoon in Majnu Ka Tilla
The minute we emerged from the Delhi airport, I was grasping. Overwhelming traffic, like Beijing. On the left side of the road, like Belfast. Crowded, dusty, dizzying, like San Salvador or Managua. Resembling cities I’ve seen before, yet cumulatively, I realized in an instant, like nothing I’ve yet experienced. Roads are shared by cars, rickshaws—auto and bike-drawn, students in burgundy uniforms, women in multi-colored saris, city busses with passengers hopping on and off at will, regardless of motion, and the occasional zebu (think ox, but bigger, and with a camel-like hump behind the head.)
Dust seems to be the pervading material characteristic of the city, so our guestroom’s pervading characteristic, dampness, was unexpected. A coating of dawn-when-camping moisture sits on our sheets, pillow, and towel. My only other experience with Lonely Planet-reviewed accommodation was in Europe, where “reasonably clean rooms” meant there might be dust bunnies in the corners. Jason reveals to me with a giggle and a tug of the curtain that “reasonably clean rooms” in Majnu Ka Tilla, Delhi, means you’re lucky the Mamma Pigeon built her nest and filled it with eggs on the outside of the window screen, rather than above your head. So the window stays open.
We need a ride to the ATM at Delhi University. A man, noticeably shorter and thinner than myself, offers to take us on his rickshaw. It’s a bike-drawn bench just wide enough for the two of us, with bars on the side and a tin covering over our heads. So we emerge into the aforementioned traffic, and I observe his childishly thin legs as he lurches forward. Pulling 280+ lbs uphill requires him to snap his whole 100 lb body forward, leaning all of his weight, standing, onto each peddle. This is his job, but I can’t help taking stock of Jason’s stature and thinking maybe he should get on the bike. But the truth is, I doubt either of us could’ve done it. Our driver dismounts and runs to make a quick right turn through four lanes of traffic. When we arrive, he’s whistling, not even winded.
We ordered thukpa and thenthuk, two popular Tibetan soups. The first was a delicious vegetable soup with long, thin noodles, full of a wave of various vegetable and spice flavors. The other had hand-pulled homemade noodle squares in a spicy vegetable broth, perfect for the chilly evening and my famished stomach that’d been subsisting on airport or airplane food for two days. Some of the foreigners we met during our airplane adventures recommended going vegetarian in India, to increase our chances of avoiding what the expats call “Delhi Belly.” If these soups are any indication, I doubt we’ll miss the meat.
It’s still my first day, so I feel somewhat entitled to be a jaw-gaping tourist, though I do my best to suppress it. At dinner, I’m enraptured by a beautiful Buddhist nun at the table next to us. Her crimson robe and shaved head seem a bold declaration that she’s made a serious commitment to the rest of her days, and she wears it comfortably, humbly. I’m wearing sweats and a winter coat I can’t convince myself to part with even though it’s fifty degrees outside. Travel-greasy hair, which I twisted into a million anxious, fascinated knots on the drive here, hangs unimpressively in my eyes. I’ve made no such commitments. I just woke up in India and decided to try the food.
Also, I posted this myself for the first time since September. Hooray for the absence of censorship!
Dust seems to be the pervading material characteristic of the city, so our guestroom’s pervading characteristic, dampness, was unexpected. A coating of dawn-when-camping moisture sits on our sheets, pillow, and towel. My only other experience with Lonely Planet-reviewed accommodation was in Europe, where “reasonably clean rooms” meant there might be dust bunnies in the corners. Jason reveals to me with a giggle and a tug of the curtain that “reasonably clean rooms” in Majnu Ka Tilla, Delhi, means you’re lucky the Mamma Pigeon built her nest and filled it with eggs on the outside of the window screen, rather than above your head. So the window stays open.
We need a ride to the ATM at Delhi University. A man, noticeably shorter and thinner than myself, offers to take us on his rickshaw. It’s a bike-drawn bench just wide enough for the two of us, with bars on the side and a tin covering over our heads. So we emerge into the aforementioned traffic, and I observe his childishly thin legs as he lurches forward. Pulling 280+ lbs uphill requires him to snap his whole 100 lb body forward, leaning all of his weight, standing, onto each peddle. This is his job, but I can’t help taking stock of Jason’s stature and thinking maybe he should get on the bike. But the truth is, I doubt either of us could’ve done it. Our driver dismounts and runs to make a quick right turn through four lanes of traffic. When we arrive, he’s whistling, not even winded.
We ordered thukpa and thenthuk, two popular Tibetan soups. The first was a delicious vegetable soup with long, thin noodles, full of a wave of various vegetable and spice flavors. The other had hand-pulled homemade noodle squares in a spicy vegetable broth, perfect for the chilly evening and my famished stomach that’d been subsisting on airport or airplane food for two days. Some of the foreigners we met during our airplane adventures recommended going vegetarian in India, to increase our chances of avoiding what the expats call “Delhi Belly.” If these soups are any indication, I doubt we’ll miss the meat.
It’s still my first day, so I feel somewhat entitled to be a jaw-gaping tourist, though I do my best to suppress it. At dinner, I’m enraptured by a beautiful Buddhist nun at the table next to us. Her crimson robe and shaved head seem a bold declaration that she’s made a serious commitment to the rest of her days, and she wears it comfortably, humbly. I’m wearing sweats and a winter coat I can’t convince myself to part with even though it’s fifty degrees outside. Travel-greasy hair, which I twisted into a million anxious, fascinated knots on the drive here, hangs unimpressively in my eyes. I’ve made no such commitments. I just woke up in India and decided to try the food.
Also, I posted this myself for the first time since September. Hooray for the absence of censorship!
Your Estimated Time of Arrival Is.
I generally make an effort not to dwell on transportation mishaps, as the best travel writers seldom bore their readers with the ins and outs of navigating a bus schedule (half of our time in Harbin was spent walking nowhere and riding the bus the wrong way to the outer extremities of a humongous city. Wanna hear about it? No?) However, I’ve decided it’s worth noting that our red-eye flight from Shanghai, forecasted to land in Delhi at 2:45 a.m., unceremoniously flew past and landed in Mumbai, it’s second destination, instead. My worst traveling fear, of falling asleep in transit and waking up in the wrong city, was realized.
Our company made the indefinite delay tolerable. We met Ramon, a button and zipper salesman (more exotic than it sounds) from Netherlands, a collection of Indian students who just finished medical school in Shanghai, and a lovely Chinese businesswoman who let me use her cell phone to inform our driver that we’d be indefinitely late. He took the eleven-hour delay as an opportunity to do absolutely nothing at the airport and then charge us for eleven hours of parking. When we finally arrived in Delhi, we heard an almost-thorough announcement that another flight would arrive late. At the end of the message, the announcer said, “The estimated time of arrival is.” Is. Is we have no idea so we’re not going to say anything. The Indians in line were stoic, unphased, while travel-weary and delirious Westerners doubled over laughing.
Our company made the indefinite delay tolerable. We met Ramon, a button and zipper salesman (more exotic than it sounds) from Netherlands, a collection of Indian students who just finished medical school in Shanghai, and a lovely Chinese businesswoman who let me use her cell phone to inform our driver that we’d be indefinitely late. He took the eleven-hour delay as an opportunity to do absolutely nothing at the airport and then charge us for eleven hours of parking. When we finally arrived in Delhi, we heard an almost-thorough announcement that another flight would arrive late. At the end of the message, the announcer said, “The estimated time of arrival is.” Is. Is we have no idea so we’re not going to say anything. The Indians in line were stoic, unphased, while travel-weary and delirious Westerners doubled over laughing.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
The Here and Now is Coming Round
When the year turned in China, I was sitting in my narrow living room with Jason, Becky and Sara, attempting to pop a huge bottle of champagne that essentially tastes like a drop of fruit juice mixed with bai jiu (Chinese liquor, or, the grossest thing ever deemed consumable.)
The four of us trolled through Billboard’s best of the decade lists, musing at the fact that this is the first turn of a decade we’ve been functionally conscious for, remembering who we were crushing on when “You Got it Bad” was big, considering the raunchy lyrics of R. Kelly’s “Remix to Ignition” that provided the background for some of high school’s greatest moments, applauding Justin Timberlake’s ability to stay afloat, nay improve, post N’Sync, and recalling which frat basement we were dancing in to “Gold Digger” this time four years ago. Also, noting that we haven’t even heard of some of the artists in the week’s top 40—we really have been gone awhile.
True, our New Year’s celebration was exceptionally tame. Our rowdy crew has dwindled in the past month, aided by an English buddy insinuating that some girls at a KTV were prostitutes and instigating a fight that landed a Chinese friend and a couple waiguoren at the police station, veritably guaranteeing that the rest of us won’t be permitted to remain in Chengde one second past the end of our teaching contract. We’re trying to keep a low profile.
In my first significant act of the decade, I went as close to Siberia as I ever hope to be. Sara, Becky and I ventured up to Harbin, where the current low is -23 F, and tomorrow’s forecasted low is -32 F, for their Ice and Snow Festival. I invested in some warm and amusing knock-off apparel for the occasion—I am the proud owner of a “Lumbia” coat, complete with the Columbia snowflake logo, and also a pair of rather legit-looking Ugg boots, which I really wish said “Gugg” like the ones I saw in Chengde last week.
The city of Harbin remains in a deep freeze until March, which entitles them to build an entire ice amusement park on an island, complete with a several-stories-tall bottle of Harbin beer, the local brew. In addition to ice buildings, snow sculptors create scaled replicas of monuments like the Egyptian Sphinx. I thought I was just going to freeze my tail off and get a few cool pictures, but the festival was more interactive than that—every other sculpture featured steps up and often-enormous ice slides to the bottom. The Hollywood Hill was sculpted in snow, and a line of children and adults waited to sled down it.
Harbin is unique in China because it has a history of Russian involvement, which is visible in some of its downtown architecture and restaurants. At a Russian café decorated like your grandmother’s living room—or a curious antiques museum, if your grandmother isn’t the type to pile old photos on the wall and keep curio cabinets full of old cameras or a cabinet devoted to delicious vodkas—I had borscht that I would almost accuse of being authentic, and some tiny Russian cookies that followed it perfectly. I assume the actual Russians dining there were paid for adding to the legitimacy of the place.
The park in the city center has a themed extension of the island festival. This year it was Disney themed—the On Ice variety, of course. All the princesses, and a row of villains, were sculpted in snow. When I get to India next week and am finally able to post pictures, I will throw up some Disney trivia, because I have a picture of a snow villain that I swear I’ve never seen before. Free postcard if you can tell me who it is. I have a picture in front of Ariel’s frozen ocean palace, which is enough for me to concede that it was worth wearing two layers of tights under my jeans for a couple days. I also experienced the pleasure of a sleeper train back from Harbin, which was tolerable except that I woke up in an absolute panic, thinking that I actually was heading to my freezing death in Siberia.
Perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, but at the beginning of November I thought to myself, “These next two months are going to be the hardest.” The daylight dwindled, and as the temperatures hung out below zero I spent as little time as possible outside the apartment. We all did our best to create ample holiday cheer while not thinking too hard about it being the holidays. Those months survived, I am incredibly excited for the next segment of my journey, which begins Thursday when Jason and I leave for six weeks in India. I’m excited about the whole trip but, notably for you, I’ll finally be able to post to my own blog and put up pictures from the last 5 months.
Happy New Year!
The four of us trolled through Billboard’s best of the decade lists, musing at the fact that this is the first turn of a decade we’ve been functionally conscious for, remembering who we were crushing on when “You Got it Bad” was big, considering the raunchy lyrics of R. Kelly’s “Remix to Ignition” that provided the background for some of high school’s greatest moments, applauding Justin Timberlake’s ability to stay afloat, nay improve, post N’Sync, and recalling which frat basement we were dancing in to “Gold Digger” this time four years ago. Also, noting that we haven’t even heard of some of the artists in the week’s top 40—we really have been gone awhile.
True, our New Year’s celebration was exceptionally tame. Our rowdy crew has dwindled in the past month, aided by an English buddy insinuating that some girls at a KTV were prostitutes and instigating a fight that landed a Chinese friend and a couple waiguoren at the police station, veritably guaranteeing that the rest of us won’t be permitted to remain in Chengde one second past the end of our teaching contract. We’re trying to keep a low profile.
In my first significant act of the decade, I went as close to Siberia as I ever hope to be. Sara, Becky and I ventured up to Harbin, where the current low is -23 F, and tomorrow’s forecasted low is -32 F, for their Ice and Snow Festival. I invested in some warm and amusing knock-off apparel for the occasion—I am the proud owner of a “Lumbia” coat, complete with the Columbia snowflake logo, and also a pair of rather legit-looking Ugg boots, which I really wish said “Gugg” like the ones I saw in Chengde last week.
The city of Harbin remains in a deep freeze until March, which entitles them to build an entire ice amusement park on an island, complete with a several-stories-tall bottle of Harbin beer, the local brew. In addition to ice buildings, snow sculptors create scaled replicas of monuments like the Egyptian Sphinx. I thought I was just going to freeze my tail off and get a few cool pictures, but the festival was more interactive than that—every other sculpture featured steps up and often-enormous ice slides to the bottom. The Hollywood Hill was sculpted in snow, and a line of children and adults waited to sled down it.
Harbin is unique in China because it has a history of Russian involvement, which is visible in some of its downtown architecture and restaurants. At a Russian café decorated like your grandmother’s living room—or a curious antiques museum, if your grandmother isn’t the type to pile old photos on the wall and keep curio cabinets full of old cameras or a cabinet devoted to delicious vodkas—I had borscht that I would almost accuse of being authentic, and some tiny Russian cookies that followed it perfectly. I assume the actual Russians dining there were paid for adding to the legitimacy of the place.
The park in the city center has a themed extension of the island festival. This year it was Disney themed—the On Ice variety, of course. All the princesses, and a row of villains, were sculpted in snow. When I get to India next week and am finally able to post pictures, I will throw up some Disney trivia, because I have a picture of a snow villain that I swear I’ve never seen before. Free postcard if you can tell me who it is. I have a picture in front of Ariel’s frozen ocean palace, which is enough for me to concede that it was worth wearing two layers of tights under my jeans for a couple days. I also experienced the pleasure of a sleeper train back from Harbin, which was tolerable except that I woke up in an absolute panic, thinking that I actually was heading to my freezing death in Siberia.
Perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, but at the beginning of November I thought to myself, “These next two months are going to be the hardest.” The daylight dwindled, and as the temperatures hung out below zero I spent as little time as possible outside the apartment. We all did our best to create ample holiday cheer while not thinking too hard about it being the holidays. Those months survived, I am incredibly excited for the next segment of my journey, which begins Thursday when Jason and I leave for six weeks in India. I’m excited about the whole trip but, notably for you, I’ll finally be able to post to my own blog and put up pictures from the last 5 months.
Happy New Year!
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