Colombia: Ground with gusto

La Plaza Botero and the gorditas (little fatties), central Medellin

Stepping out of the tower next to the Colombian Stock Exchange in northern Bogota, I walked in search of a bank down a clean-swept sidewalk seamlessly covered in mid-morning shade by a few of the columns of earth-tone brick buildings that so define the city’s skyline.

I had been increasingly in need of an ATM that would accept my US debit card; Colombian banks were proving to be relentlessly finicky with taking foreign cards and I was forced to only make charged purchases while budgeting my pesos. The Malaysian debit card I had handy was resulting in similar, predictable failure.

After abortively uttering a question to the bank’s security guard, I quickly discovered the location of an ATM machine – giving the short, sun-crisped skinned man a moment to pick up his walkie-talkie.

“Hay extranjero aca,” he boomed into the receiver. There is a foreigner here.

“There was a time when no one would visit Colombia,” a business expert had just told me moments earlier. “It was once up there with Iraq, or where Syria and Libya are now. The only English you would here on the streets,” he continued, “would be from bald-headed American marines.”

But that harsh reality is no more. Tourism receipts are now on the uptick, and security guards make a point to notice visitors – though more so to ensure additional safety is provided. In the country’s largest city, Asian immigrants set up restaurants in chic shopping districts that throng with young Bogotano trendsetters on their way to the hippest, newest discotheques.

Street scene in La Candelaria, the historic center of Bogota

The Colombian security situation had indeed changed for the better, largely in major cities and in part because of the highly controversial policies implemented in 2006 by former President Alvaro Uribe that encouraged paramilitary groups to “demobilize” from their conflict with communist gorillas.

An escalation of violence that had been born out of vendetta killings when the father of a pair of brothers from northern Medellin was murdered by the notorious Fuerza Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (FARC), a Marxist-Leninist faction of rebels-cum-drug lords that still occupy Colombia’s jungles (with 18,000 members as of latest), was slicing the country apart with centrifugal force.

The initial reaction to Alvaro’s move was seen as contentious because many of the former militia were given not only impunity, but also political offices in many of the outlying villages they once occupied. Yet as much of a short-sell as it appeared to Colombian urbanites, economic progress has since been rejuvenated, imbuing business owners and foreign investors in turn with a renewed sense of confidence in the country’s future.

Today, instead of having a failed state, Colombians have a country with drastically increased security that is currently experiencing a GDP growth rate of 5.9 percent year-on-year, according to the World Bank. Bogota’s GDP alone, my business acquaintance is fond to point out, is larger than Ecuador, Costa Rica or Uruguay. Depending on the statistics you look at, Colombia or Spain would be considered the second largest Spanish-speaking nation in the world by population next to Mexico.

“Safe and welcoming”

Though Colombia is still more often associated with coffee and coca leaves than Candelaria, the historic center of Bogota known for it Spanish colonial architecture, the street scenes across Bogota, Medellin and both the cities’ surrounding villages frame a society intent to step away from the past and modernize their country’s image with all the gusto of that displayed by a bicyclist in the ciclovia, a weekly bicycle route that opens up extra lanes across streets in Bogota, Medellin and Cali from 8am to 2pm every Sunday.

Tourists passing through Colombia that I met in Medellin had positive comments to give the country: “Compared to Central America, Colombia feels safe and welcoming,” a middle-aged Canadian couple living on an island in Honduras told me.

Colombia’s clean up has come at a cost to others, recent headlines suggest. Most of the lawlessness and drug-related violence once tagged to Colombia has since migrated northwards to El Salvador, Honduras and Mexico. “We feel sorry for people in Mexico because we know what they are going through,” a paisa friend told me (paisa being a person from Medellin and the surrounding region of the Andes).

Much of Colombia’s charm – once obscured by the stigma of protracted violence – is now readily accessible to foreigners, and plenty of locals will be ready exhibit their touring skills to lead the way, whether to out-lying attractions or to delectable dishes made up of an amalgamation of meats and fruits, creating a blend that is as diverse as the multiethnic faces of Colombianos themselves.

Guatavita, a village an hour north of Bogota

The pueblitos, or small villages, that dot the countryside an hour outside of Bogota are alluring attractions. With their soft sand shingles and cobble-stone corridors, Colombian countryside villages look as if they were plucked out of Spanish literature and hung on the side on of the Andes with all the delicacy of an artisian piecing together a ship in a glass bottle.

How Colombia had built up such negative notoriety was only apparent to me on these country drives, both outside of Bogota and Medellin, where military personnel armed with M-16s hailed down cars to perform inspectations at puntos de contoles, or checkpoints. Driving by other sentries spaced about 100 meters apart required all passengers to signal by sticking their thumbs up; mirrored gesture from soldiers indicating a pass.

I would come closer to embracing a key contributor to the country’s security crisis on the last leg of my trip.

 Cure of the Cartel

Perched half way up a slaloming mountainous road overlooking eastern Medellin, the whitewashed cinder blocks of a quaint house seem to bathe a meticulously tended garden and yard with splashes of reflected sun, giving the property an iridescent beauty that belies its notorious history.

This particular two-story mountainside home was once the hideout of the infamous kingpin of the Medellin Cartel: Pablo Escobar. The day before he died, I am informed, Escobar was in this hideout celebrating his birthday. Once responsible for nearly 80 percent of the world’s cocaine during the late 70s and early 80s, making him the 7^th richest man in the world at the time according to Forbes, Escobar was a kind of reckless Robin Hood to the people of Medellin, bestowing homes on the less fortunate of the city while encumbering day-to-day life with the hardships of a drug war being raged between the cartel and Colombian and US special forces.

Such is the infamy of the late Escobar that his trade has become inextricably attached to the Colombia. Next to coffee, the coca leaf always comes with Colombia, along with the culture of warfare it promoted.

“Meet Pablo Escobar’s Brother”, a tour poster read at my hostel in El Poblado, the trendy bar district of Medellin. Sure enough, the nearly $30 (50,000 Colombian pesos) paid brought me in front of Roberto Escobar, who stood like a wax figure in front of the whitewashed walls of the hideout’s back patio.

The tour had caught the attention of the Wall Street Journal last December, and was giving Roberto a steady cash flow from mostly 20-something backpackers that he said was being used for his AIDS charity. A book documenting all of his visitors was there to prove his income.

Roberto Escobar and I

Half blind and half deaf from a bomb going off close to his face, Roberto lived the life next to his kingpin brother, fondly recalling the time when the two escaped from jail together when asked by a tour participant about his favorite memory of Pablo.

That the Colombian government allows the tour is a signal that – beyond being indignant to persistent associations with tarnished history – the country views it as a piece of history that has shaped their present and is inseparably part of the fabric of Medellin. Roberto’s claims to have made a breakthrough with finding a cure for AIDS may also be giving him an additional shine to the public, who seem to be charmed by his altruistic disposition – whether he actually finds a cure or not.

Myanmar (Burma): Muslims, Jews and Nazi “fashion”

Standing in front of the Musmeah Yeshua Synagogue with its ethnic Indian groundskeeper in Yangon

Every once in a while I decide to expand on some of the more telling anecdotes born out of my travels. This happens to be one of those times.

—

The Musmeah Yeshua Synagogue sits on a lively corner in downtown Yangon that opens up onto an alley where merchants tinker with a miscellany of metals and rubber piping forming ad hoc workstations that rob the already narrow path of its dignity. The steel bars that stand guard in front of the synagogue have business of their own as well: today a small group of them periodically give way creating a swing door that flaps open for Monday visitors, the relatively few that come to Yangon anyways. In 2010, 791,500 foreign tourists visited Myanmar, compared to Thailand’s 15.84 million. It was an all-star year that promises to be outdone by 2011 — but not by much. Until recent, the majority of news coverage coming out of this overwhelmingly Buddhist nation involved depredations of human rights. I had put off the trip for four years partly due to the pangs of moral conviction that would surface whenever I got wind of atrocities being committed in the country, harboring my Myanmar (Burma) Lonely Planet as I moved from Asian metropolis to Asian metropolis like a fugitive I wished to conceal — until finally I could hide it no more.

Inside the Musmeah Yeshua Synagogue, Yangon

My Indian-American colleague and I had visited Myanmar’s solitary synagogue on the Sunday before our departure only to be told by a groundskeeper in an overstretched white muscle shirt that it was closed. The synagogue serves the approximately 45-person Jewish community in Myanmar made up of Jews with roots from Northwest and South India as well as Baghdad, a surprising find in my journey that competed with my preconceived notion of Yangon: A city of Buddhist temples purportedly rife with suppression of every kind. Initially, I abortively approached the groundskeeper in English, but only received a nervous stare of miscomprehension in return. He stood there for a second trying to make sense of me, raising the trimmed beard on his chin up as if to put more space between us.

“Ah!” he sounded off in a burst of sudden clarity to my colleague. They began speaking Hindi to each other. The groundskeeper, who gave his name as Mohammed, was a Muslim Indian whose ancestors came from Southern India to Myanmar some 70 years ago. The family maintained the culture and language. “Ah, yes” he sounded off. “The synagogue is closed today. So sorry.”

Curious about the odd pair of foreigners that had wandered his way, another man — also going by Mohammed — of similar facial features and complexion, yet half the body weight, came out of the adjacent workshop to add his opinions. He spoke with a deep, guttural voice as if he had to make up for his relatively smaller size and stature with the projection of his speech. The three quickly entered into an energetic conversation, like old college friends at a reunion. A common language coming from a foreigner has a way of defeating superficial barriers. But I had to interrupt: “Isn’t there any sort of religious tension in Yangon?” My colleague translated my question.

The taller Mohammed stepped forward to explain, glancing back at me intermittently. “No,” he answered quite nonchalantly. “We take care of each other here.”

My colleague (and former study abroad advisor) with a Nazi T-shirt, in front of a Buddhist temple outside of Yangon

There is an undercurrent of diversity and apparent tolerance in central Yangon that seems pleasantly misplaced to the unfamiliar. While Myanmar is still a stronghold for Theravada Buddhism – and represents pockets of animists intertwined with the local beliefs of the many ethnic minorities – central Yangon retains the cultural collage of a forward-moving capital. At a point in history, Myanmar was a beacon of prosperity in the region. The British funneled Indian workers to the colony from across the subcontinent, whose descendents today pay homage at the city’s Hindu temples and mosques, located just down the road from churches, Buddhist temples and — of course — the country’s sole synagogue.

Before the current military junta assumed power, Yangon was an open and raucous city, filled with a maddening din of expats comparable to today’s Bangkok. However, those days came to pass after the coup. Sanctions piled upon sanctions began to isolate the country and etch in trade boundaries and travel boycotts that would preserve the country in a time capsule of crumbling colonial British architecture and untampered traditions.

But there was still diversity. Even more once you start to discern the 10 major ethnic groups (not including the Indian population). And there was still tension. Ethnic groups in Myanmar have notoriously deep-seeded grudges against each other to this day. Standing between two Muslim Indian groundskeepers in front of a synagogue, I couldn’t help but feel that there was a some circumstances that history had omitted.

“No one troubles each other in our community,” the taller Mohammed continued. I was getting the sense that along with the ban of goods, the rest of the world had been prohibited from exporting prevailing animosities to Myanmar as well.

Fan of Nazi "fashion"

Just then, a short man walked into my peripheries – well, more like hobbled. He was wearing dark jeans and a bright white T-shirt. On the front, a large red square with a familiar symbol: the swastika of the Third Reich.  He continued towards us, flashing a wry smile. This wasn’t the first time I had seen signs of Hitler’s insignia: T-shirts with the swastika were being sold along street corners; a vendor in front of a temple outside of Yangon had cheerily smiled at me while I fingered through his Nazi wear 48 hours prior; at a temple in Bago, a ticket seller had a helmet propped up on the counter displaying an iron eagle, the embelm of Hitler’s party. No sooner did I bring up this odd reoccurrence in my journey did the stunted man lurch over to us. “What do you make of this symbol? Are there many racists here?”

We all fought back uneasy laughter at the timely coincidence. Now closer, the short man was visibly a bit mentally disabled, his confused smile not sure where to guide him next. “This symbol,” Mohammed said instructively, waiting to finish his thought until after the man left, “it is a kind of fashion for crazy people.”

The German swastika and a vast collection of other Nazi merchandise had become “fashion.” Unaware of any deeper significance, people proudly displayed their T-shirts, pins and army accessories. Or perhaps they were feeding some grand unspoken enmity by promoting the leader of a former “Axis of Evil,” some possessed attachment to an ethos that stood in opposition to the West. But I wasn’t about to worry, at least not in this community. People take care of each other here.

Myanmar’s détente makes travel easier

Ethnic Indian street vendor selling posters of pro-democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi and her father, Aung San, in Yangon

Poorly pasted together and full of pixelated photographs, my Myanmar Lonely Planet has been following me forlornly ever since I picked it up some four years ago from a child book hawker in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Besides my China LP (covered in brown paper to hide its entry from Chinese customs), it stood alone on my bookshelf as my only travel guide (I move too much to take all of them), reminding me of a destination I had always dreamed of going to but lacked the time and moral conviction to fulfill.

Two weeks ago, in the days leading up to Secretary of State Hillary Clinton’s historic visit, I finally got the chance to flip through its floppy pages with actual intent when I landed in Yangon. CNNGo published a travel piece of mine today bred out of that trip detailing how Myanmar (known still by its colonial British name, Burma) is becoming easier to travel in.

Foreign exchange bank as yet unopened on Merchant St., Yangon

Myanmar has already changed dramatically in the past year due to benevolent reforms. The international press (including the BBC) have been allowed access to Aung San Suu Kyi, released in November, 2010 after 15 years of house arrest that spanned two decades, and the NLD, the favorite opposition group to the ruling military junta which she heads, was allowed to register in upcoming elections.

Whether any of this high-publicity rapprochement sticks is still yet to be seen, but experts are hopeful that significant signs such as the reintroduction of ATMs and the construction of foreign exchange banks means the junta is seriously willing to start interacting with the outside world, stepping out of Condoleezza Rice’s collection of heavy-handed autocracies, the so-called “Outposts of Tyranny” and into what is already being called Clinton’s “Anti-China Axis.”

There are hundreds of pristine islands on Myanmar’s side of the isthmus in the Myeik Archipelago and thousands of decaying temples that could do with some friendly injection of tourism funds. If the opening up continues, Myanmar is well on its way to fomenting an additional loop in the Southeast Asia tourism circuit.

Just take a look at these pictures of places my short stint didn’t allow me to see. Next time…

Pagodas at Bagan / Source - allmyanmar.com

The Lost City of Mrauk U / Source - weekendsg.blogspot.com

Myin-khwa Island, Myeik Archipelago / Source - myanmar.com

Who are the waitresses at Pyongyang restaurants in Shanghai?

North Korean waitresses rock out a power ballad to their Great Leader at a Pyongyang restaurant, Shanghai

Recently I’ve been fixated with totalitarian regimes, and it’s beginning to show in my work. Today I published a piece titled “The odd reality behind Shanghai’s Pyongyang restaurants” for CNNGo in which I discovered that waitresses of the three North Korean-government run Pyongyang restaurants in Shanghai have no clue of each others’ existence. Like the night sky of their electricity-deprived homeland, they are kept in the dark.

I popped in as a patron at the Xujiahui branch and quickly realized that it was going to be hard to get information in person, so I turned to CNNGo and their abundant resources (a Chinese intern, in this case).

After sporadically calling each of the restaurants several times over the course of two weeks, asking questions about banquets and how much visitors can interact with the waitresses to the occasional personal probe, we finely confirmed what I had initially expected: the waitresses know of little beyond their immediate circle, are mostly amateur performers, and likely come from a high-class caste in Pyongyang.

It is worth noting that there are many other locations, some more established then others, in Dubai, Kuala Lumpur, Phnom Penh and Ulan Bator, to name a few.

My fascination with pariah states is slated to continue, this time with Myanmar (Burma). More to come on that.

Jakarta’s Eco-village, Pulau Macan

The porch in front of a driftwood hut, Pulau Macan

It’s a balmy afternoon on a sun-drenched island in the world’s largest archipelago, Indonesia. And as island life goes here, things are quiet. The only sounds that interrupt the peaceful swash of the turquoise tide are the crinkling of palm fronds in the wind and the occasional over-sized lizard tap dancing in the brush.

At just a 90-minute boat ride from the murky waste that splashes about in the Anchol Marina in Northern Jakarta, the contrast between the water couldn’t be greater. It literally goes from filthy to flawless. On the journey out of Jakarta, Indonesia’s raucous capital and antithetical manifestation of eco-consciousness, you can pinpoint the line exactly where the pollution ceases as if a giant underwater strainer was set in place. But on Pulau Macan, the lack of harmony with mother nature representative of city life is being made up for in spades.

Solar panels positioned above the pier on Pulau Macan

Pulau Macan (Bahasa Indonesia for Tiger Island, though there are no tigers hold the look-a-like rocking horse at the clubhouse) sits atop the northern part of the Thousand Islands, a misnomer for the chain of about 120 small emerald-green islands that expand north of a Jakarta. A  small, insignificant speck of a land that measures one hectare, Pulau Macan adheres to a self-imposed population cap of 30 people. (If you are as unfamiliar with hectares as I am, then picture an island that takes you less then three minutes to cross by foot.) Obviously there are no vehicles here; a crowd consists of a few good friends at the clubhouse or the seaside bar.

The owners, both Indonesian and mixed-blood foreigners born in Indonesia, are billing their venture as an eco-village. Take a closer look at the pier, and you’ll notice the long strip of solar panels that provide the island with power; behind the clubhouse, an organic garden made congruous with the land bears fruit; the accommodation comes complete with driftwood furniture carved by artisans. There is even talk of utilizing the septic tank to create a gray-water garden.

Scheduling is scant. In between meals, which are included in the package tours, visitors can dip in amongst kaleidoscopic fish that teem the surrounding reefs. Pulau Botak (Bald Island), a minute island in the distance, is also owned by Pulau Macan and is close enough to reach with a strong swim or quick paddle. Guided tours about the more eco-friendly aspects of the island are also available by asking one of the owners

Arriving back to the sounds and smells of Jakarta, travelers are once again confronted with the glaring contrast between the near-by neighbors, and most likely glad to have discovered a green getaway such a short distance from the big city.

Travelers can swim or kayak to Pulau Botak (Bald Island), the island across from Pulau Macan

A Walk Through Dazu, Chongqing

Wiling away the day in Dazu, Chongqing

“China is the factory of the world.” It’s a perfectly common statement to make these days. Plenty of people have said it themselves or at least acknowledged it, and yet, for the most part, I had only passively taken it into account until I heard it uttered out of the mouth of Mr. Liu. The 52-year-old father and former factory worker at a local “key-making plant” was on his way back hometown of Dazu when we met on the 9:30am-scheduled bus departing from Chongqing City.

“[Factories here] don’t only make keys,” he said while thumbing the twinkling steel key chain in his right hand. Between the municipal capital of Chongqing and the town of Dazu (located next to the Sichuan border) smog is continuously ejected from an array of factories producing small-metal commodities that shroud the road ahead in an opaque veil. “Knives, tools, rings, bottle openers —” they were all being molded and packaged somewhere behind the gloomy mist of soot outside our window, readied to feed the demand of rich countries in search of competitively priced goods made possible by cheap labor. Mr. Liu knew this, but he was readily going to lament about it. He had his wife, his daughter and a coat on his back; though it was the kind of gritty second-hand, dark-blue down jacket that is one stitch away from a rag.

Yet as engrossed as I was being within ear shot of Mr. Liu, (and thankful for having the best kind of company one could wish for on a trip into China’s hinterlands) I was not on this bus to discuss the backbone of China’s economic engine. Well, at least not exactly.

The Municipality of Chongqing was only recently split off from Sichuan Province on March 14, 1997, which explains why people in Chongqing speak a similar dialect to Sichuanese — often hard for Mandarin speakers to understand because of its vast incongruity with standardized tones.

Feeling more confident with my Mandarin despite the occasional blur of Sichuanese (or Shanghainese back ‘home’) that added substantial dose of static to what had become an otherwise smooth process, I had decided to take a day trip to the Dazu Rock Carvings and, more excitingly (especially to me), walk about the back roads of a town that exhibited a promising amount of adventurous opportunities for the wandering foreigner.

Before my departure, however, I needed to complete some very important matters. Like those of the neighboring province they had once been a part of, people in Chongqing reveled in a culinary culture that centered on the same notoriously spicy hot pots — widely known as the staple food of the region. The meal, which comes off as more of an activity to first timers, is as synonymous to Chongqing as mountain vistas are to Tibet. So much so that without trying a Chongqing-style hot pot, locals would be quick to bring up the lack of authenticity in your trip.

Two days prior to my departure for Dazu, I was fortunate enough to tic off this task with Jason Thalacker, an American friend of mine and old college classmate, along with a group of gaggling mothers that would be accompanying him. (He had recently befriended them on vacation in the southern part of the Municipality of Chongqing, and like any education-orientated mother would do, they saw Jason’s friendship as an opportunity to give their children exposure to English.) Jason had arrived in China around seven months prior with the Peace Corps. and, a credit to his experience, had already heard of the “hot pot street” which we would be chauffeured to.

Shoeshiner in Dazu

Originally a karaoke bar, the private rooms of this remodeled restaurant now had circular tables slapped in the middle of them, though the velvety purple lounge sofas still remained as well as the flat-screen TVs. However, music videos were no longer the attraction here; bubbling pots of red and white liquid had become the objects of entertainment.

Try the tripe, try the ox tongue — oh, why not try the duck blood. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” I thought. Or — because this is China. 入乡随俗 (ru xiang sui su). “When in the countryside, follow the local customs.”

I’ve always thought that making an initial attempt to assimilate to new environments has played a large part in dressing down any anxieties. This is where all those lectures you had to endure during that treacherous early-morning philosophy course you took sophomore year come into play. “Think outside the box,” I often laugh to myself. “How about living outside of the box?”

Ask someone from Chongqing, and they’d probably tell you that Dazu is the countryside. On the contrary, though grassy knolls can be spotted down streets’ ends in the distance where gray concrete apartment blocks meet green farmland, this quaint town certainly echoes similar sensations felt and heard in China’s denser cities. Construction is consistently ubiquitous. Like the busy backdrops of these hubs, Dazu is accented by tower cranes that spin over city blocks like arcade claw vending machines readying to pluck up their next prize.

The bus stop where I was to bid farewell to my one-time travel companion could have been any other in the country. Throngs of people were lined up at two counters in impatient anticipation of their eminent voyages. The ground was cemented with the spit of ten-thousand avid cigarette smokers. And a cacophony of chatter waxed and waned in the intimate area that defines the difference between sound and noise.

The whole of my day could be described in a single — though multifarious — feeling: alienation.  If I did not look into a mirror, I would not have seen a single foreigner that day. (Surprisingly, even advertisements were absent of the foreign models that are spread across billboards of every size in China’s eastern coastal capitals.)

I stood out. That can go without saying, though I choose to say it because the way in which I appeared throttled my perceptions through several stages. At first, my nerves spiked up as if made to reflex by the gentle prodding of a minute needle. This sense instigated a mostly defensive, detective-like manner: analyzing the sidewalk and passing faces while trying to judge how I was being judged. Unless engrossed in some trite amusement, (it was still Chinese New Year, so everyone was on holiday) pedestrians took notice of me either cautiously or directly. Those that displayed the former of the two would curiously stare out of their peripheries, anxious or perplexed by the white face in their midst. Yes, perplexing indeed. It is an odd word to use here because of its nature. Naturally I was also entwined by it. Perplexity. The confusion shown in their faces seemed to say: “Why?” It did not lack reciprocal conjecture on my part.

The initial tension I felt across my body soon gave way to a giddy spirit that added a more jovial stride to my step, as if my legs were being thawed from the ground up. I began accepting my surroundings and noticing more around me. The verdant trees that ribboned the streets here were dotted with red lanterns. A middle-aged man sat underneath one getting his shoes shined while his wife and daughter looked on. Dazu was a happy place, and there was nothing to fear here.

It was around this time I began to distinguish the more engaged onlookers. They greeted me with acts of astonishment: those befitting a leper or a famous foreign face freshly peeled of the cover of a glossy magazine; more often a mix of the two; a kind of horrible amusement that found no boundaries on either side of the spectrum.

One face (or rather two, but in memory they take the form as one) is indelibly printed into my mind. Following a crowd towards a street vendor selling spicy French fries — the spiciest thing I ate my entire two-week trip in Western China — I heard a tiny voice chime ‘laowai’ (foreigner in Chinese), a word that is repeated around white foreigners in these parts like a broken soundtrack. I quickly spun around to make out the source, more jocosely than out of investigation. Before me, a mother and her adolescent daughter stood side by side, hand in hand. The look they shared was one of horror. Taken aback to the point where gapping jaws were the only thing that could do their emotions justice. Eyes wide and cheeked creased, they themselves void of sound on that busy street, that’s how they remain with me.

For myself, except for the occasional abrupt ‘laowai’ or ‘hello’ would assault my consciousness from across the street, (Clearly showing the unsettling difference between being ‘helloed at’ and ‘helloed to,’ to note an observation by Jason Thalacker) I began to feel more and more at ease with the reality of my situation. I eventually grew to call this final stage acceptance.

Walking past a stagnant oil-ridden lake that shimmered like it was covered in plastic film; I got an altogether different kind of hello, neither ‘to’ nor ‘at’ me.

From just behind, perhaps at my seven o’clock, I heard a scratchy voice yell out a familiar phrase. “Hey, laowai!” it went. But then, as if wanting to perk up my attention, the old man from which the shout came added, “I haven’t seen a laowai in years!” He was standing at the dusty entrance to his well-swept apartment, a wide-open, white-tiled living room you could just manage to park a car in.

I’d like to tell you that we then sat down at his rickety majiang table where he spoke of tales about the last time he saw a foreigner, or about growing up in an adjacent mountain town or when soldiers on the Long March trailed through an area not far from here. But we had no such conversation. I had to keep walking and talking with others for now. We then parted ways with a quick wave, and I left Dazu the same way I left him. Glad that I had walked by.

Asia’s Strangest Food

This week I published a top 10 list with theexpeditioner.com about the strangest food I’ve encountered in Asia. When it was published, however, my photos weren’t used because they were deemed too graphic/disturbing.

You’ve been warned. The following are the photos that were omitted. To read the entire article click here.

10. Bamboo Worms — Bangkok, Thailand

9. Boiled Duck Head — Shanghai, China

8. Rooster Testicle Soup — Taipei, Taiwan

7. Crickets — Bangkok, Thailand

6. BBQ Dog — Sapa, Vietnam; Yunnan province, China

5. Scorpions — Bangkok, Thailand

4. Bull Penis — Tokyo, Japan; Beijing, China

3. Tarantulas — Kampong Thom, Cambodia

2. Balut (Duck Fetus) — Manila, Philippines

1. Nakji (Live Octopus) — Incheon, South Korea

 

 

 

 

Bamboo worms

BBQ dog

Balut (duck fetus)

Tarantulas

Nakji (live octopus)

Breaking from the Bustle on Green Island, Taiwan

Beach on Green Island

The beating waves of the sea tilt our boat like a metronome — each rising torrent from the cavity below spraying out liquid on either side to the symphony of the sea. Plastic bags are hung on each row of the boat within grasping distance of queasy passengers. Despite the torrential flailing of the currents below, the sun beams relentlessly through clear seas on the tiny vessel, guiding it through the sea toward the verdant speck on the horizon.

The great cliffs on the eastern coast of Taiwan soar straight south, pressed perpendicularly against the inexorably force of the Pacific. These mighty peaks press on towards Taidong, where lame ferries await animated passengers making their way towards Green Island, a speck of land off the southeastern coast of Taiwan.

A bumpy ride

Gobbling up a few sea sickness tablets prior to boarding saves my stomach from falling victim to the continuously pulsating sea. The tides from the Pacific are notorious for upsetting the stomachs of travelers on this trip, replacing the splash of the sea with the sounds of esophagus projectiles halfway through most voyages.

The speck on the horizon balloons into my peripheral vision focusing the green and gray hue of the island.

Green Island offers year-round opportunities for leisure, excluding the summer typhoon season (about June-August). The small circumference of this island can be driven around by scooter in a matter of 30 minutes. The sense solitude is never lost here because the local government maintains a cap on how many tourists are allowed on the island during peak seasons. This keeps the population relatively low and the traffic exponentially more blissful than the mad streets of Taipei, droning with sirens and clamorous night markets. Because of this, Green Island has become an increasingly popular escape in Taiwan as more people attempt to escape their hurried city lives.

Renting scooters

Renting scooters

Scooters are easy to rent, but notoriously dangerous if not taken seriously. That being said, Green Island’s low population density makes it the perfect place to hop on and learn. Breaking blue waves press against a single straight road brooding with tropical foliage at the base of an unforgiving cliff. There is only one road on the island, making it an extraordinary feat to get lost. Rides around the island smoothly snake up and down cliffs, revealing full views of the island with fresh sea air crisply kissing your path.

Soak in the springs like a local

The majority of tourists here are Taiwanese, and they are always ready to reverie in the face of outsiders. This is made most apparent during hot spring sessions. The ChaoRi Hot Springs (朝日溫泉), located a quick 15 minute scooter ride from the quaint port, is a must-do for any traveler coming to Green Island. The boiling water slowly secreted from the earth beneath the island warmly wraps my back and behind in bubbles. Who would ever think that slowly cooking yourself would be so damn comfortable?! Breaks between dunks are necessary, and all the normal precautions of a roller coaster ride apply here; i.e., heart troubles, pregnancy. Though foreign travelers have been making paths through here for some time, it is common to come across glances that turn to glares. This congenial curiosity can often bare interesting anecdotes.

Becoming an instant celebrity

The outer hot springs are slightly more tepid in comparison to the interior facilities that are ornamented with rustic walls and jet hoses blasting boiling water two meters high out of the wall. My girlfriend’s brother, who sports a very hairy set of chest hairs — bountiful enough to string together several wigs, or even make Robin Williams look less like a baboon — is easy to pinpoint in a hot spring sauna. After working up the courage to submerge himself in the jet of boiling water, (about 30C) he rose up to a group of young Taiwanese men clapping furiously and whistling more onlookers on from around the large domed interior. Becoming an instant celebrity is never a far cry away in Taiwan.

“Woooo,” exclaim the young men in gregarious groans. They beckon him over, broadening their arms and stroking the air like freestyle swimmers. The excitement is somehow swallowed away from us in this awkward, amicable circumstance as they clasp us together for a pose, conveniently propping the hairy wonder in the front. Half-smiling, half-dazed – we set our ill ease aside for a few pictures with our chest hair enthusiasts. Cultural clash or over-courteous congeniality — Taiwan provides a great host of opportunities to tramp across this line.

Clean and colorful coral reefs

Snorkeling and diving remain a center attraction on the island that hosts a number of instructors waiting at your disposal. Setting out for a snorkel tour off of Green Island is especially exquisite due to the delicate preparation and preservation of the outlying reef. The center snorkel spot is nurtured much like a home aquarium, placing fish there for the education and appreciation of the public. Exotic fish of all colors and sizes swarm together in schools forming shimmering rainbows of scales sliding through the sea. Large lumps of coral hide eels and larger fish waiting for the right time to take advantage of their frolicking prey.

Snorkel tours come with a guide who will offer the use of life preservers to help pull you along the sea. On a busy day, trains of people being pulled gently like surfaced sea snakes can be seen stopping and going aimlessly around the dive area. Fathers and children alike cling to the stringed life preservers. These would-be snorkelers thrash about their tube-caravan like ants caught in a bowl of cheerios.

Beware of water

Many Taiwanese people can’t swim and the guides are not used to visitors coming and leaping into the water head first, forsaking the preferred approach of a guided tour. For many years under Chiang Kai-Shek’s martial law it was illegal to swim in the ocean and anyone found doing so would be condemned as a Chinese spy. There is a general fear of the ocean in Taiwan for many reasons. Some say that it stems from animist and Taoist beliefs that ghosts live there, or perhaps the reality of the situation is a more obvious conclusion. The sea, especially surrounding Green Island, is a jungle that swarms with unique breeds of vegetation and an ecology that should be appreciated and respected. Divers on Green Island will certainly appreciate this intricately maintained cove of beauty.

Green Island remains a preserved sanctuary of solace in a country where overpopulation and pollution have taken the forte. As the small speck of grayish-green dissipates behind you, you can be sure that this off-the-beaten track island will leave you with plenty of memories of a land and people that remain curiously beautiful.

A Willing Castaway on Negros, The Philippines

The Philippines, the world’s second largest archipelago next to Indonesia, speckles the eastern side of the South China Sea with hundreds of islands blooming with baron beaches, cross-cultured cuisine, and complacent locals wearing content smiles. An illustrious array of different languages, topographies and island cultures intertwined with Latin colonialism, the Philippines is a destination that travelers find themselves revisiting over and over again.

Washed up boat on Sugar Beach

Beaches with driftwood that ornament the sugar brown sand lightly sparkle from the sun. The water is a kind of sapphire blue that melts into the afternoon sky making the horizon vanish. There is only one set of footprints in the sand that lead directly to a village just beyond the barrier-bitten black volcanic rocks. No, this is not bustling Boracay, the most well-renowned destintion in the Philippines, but Sipalay, just south of that on the island of Negros in the central Visayas.

A ferry from Cebu city, the major travel hub in the Visayas, can connect you with the port city of Dumaguete, the self-proclaimed ‘most friendly city in The Philippines.’ Dumaguete is home to the first Protestant university in the country, Silliman University, and incorporates the exemplary fiesta vibe that seems to resonate throughout the rest of the Visayas. The pace in Dumaguete is leisurely, even for a city in the Philippines, and a great port of entry to the rest of Negros Oriental.

A five hour bus northwest of Dumaguete through coastline and rice paddies will bring you to Sipalay, the home of the secluded Sugar Beach. However, your journey has only made it to the start of the last leg at this point. From Sipalay you must rent a trike, a motorcycle with a side car, to ride over a rickety wooden bridge. From there, small motor boats can be hired to take you and your belongings around the peninsula of Sugar Beach. If you are lucky enough to catch the night sky, the boat ride will be illuminated by globs of fireflies clenched to mangroves and the occasional shooting star plummeting through the stainless sky. The hum of crackled karaoke and chatter breaks through the silent night as the boat passes a small village. The beach looks like a black void completely barren of lights. None of the hotels on Sugar Beach break the forest line.

Sugar Beach is a castaway’s haven which offers a small selection of nipa palm bungalows, driftwood villas, and sand-carpeted bars a stone throw from the Sulu Sea. Beach-washed European proprietors claim the four main accommodations on Sugar Beach. Jogi, a willing castaway from Germany, remembers the days when travelers would come up on the shores and set up tents under the giant nipa palm leaf roof that has now become his restaurant and bar. “I started the construction on Sulu Sunset in January 2000,” Jogi remembers. “When the restaurant was finished, me, my whole family, and the staff slept in tents.”

Accommodation at Sulu Sunset

All of his employees are locals from the neighboring villages behind and around Sugar Beach. “That was the time we cooked and ate where the bar is now. Of course, we had to run generators at this time,” Jogi continues. “Germans need cold beer.”

The bungalows, chairs, and tables are all built from the surrounding coconut trees and bamboo stalks. If it rains you’ll find that coconut based items from the restaurant will be limited because the trees will be too wet to climb.

By the end of 2000 Jogi had built 4 bungalows with the help of his family, staff and fellow German cohort, Oliver- a backpacker who had heard of Jogi through a pension house in Sipalay and ended up staying two weeks to help Jogi with odds and ends. “Oliver continued his trip to Palawan and told every backpacker in the whole of Palawan Island about my place.” After the word got out, Jogi’s 4 bungalows periodically began losing vacancy. When leak of new visitors begins to overflow on Sugar Beach during its high seasons of January and February you’ll always be welcome to pitch up a tent.

Beached fishing boats sway in the sand as the gentle tide glides them with the pace of the evening current. The sugar brown sand turns a shade of red as villager’s gaze on to the sunset. Day trips picnicking on the beach are very much a part of Philippine culture. On these secluded shores, an amicable ambiance adjoins travelers from all walks of life with that of the Philippinos. The Philippines has a 92.6% English literacy rate (CIA Word Fact Book) which makes it very easy to communicate here compared to most countries in Asia, furthering the level of interaction made palpable.

Fifteen minutes by foot south from the northern point of Sugar Beach lays a beach barricaded by jagged volcanic rock on both sides -facing east towards the sunset. A shadowy figure swathes through the damp jungle behind me, emerging onto the sunlit sand. Doubts grow in my mind as to whether I have arrived on his private property or insulted him by taking pictures of what appears to be a village beyond the brush. “Hello friend,” the young man greets me with a smile wide enough to knock the blue baseball cap off his head. “Do you need a room? You can stay here in my village… we can also cook some fish for you.”

Nene pushes his boat into the water

The sounds of the sea slowly dissipate behind the squawks of chickens and the snorting of giant pigs. A proud fighting cock takes center, perched upon a 6 foot stick puffing up his belly in anticipation of new visitors. The territorial beast belts a boisterous coo, provoking a contender in the distance with all the charm of a prize fighter in his prime. Baby chicks roam freely with babies from the village next to the local store, set up in a common thatched hut. Various bags of snacks are stapled on a wire frame sandwiched between cans of corn beef hash and small bags of vegetables. The blue walls of the store stand perpendicular from a bamboo bench with a mother breastfeeding in the shade.

Nene guides me towards his house at the end of the dirt path pressed up against a calm river of docked fishing boats. His village helps ferry visitors from the mainland to the peninsula of Sugar Beach, a journey that takes about 5 minutes during daylight. The nipa leaf awning shelters a small group of people from the torturous afternoon sun. Three girls in white school uniforms and black skirts are serenading themselves with an over amplified karaoke machine attached to a television set running stock footage from 70s era New York and Miami. Grainy reels of women on treadmills run intermittently with New York City streets to the tune of “My Girl” flickering lyrics on the bottom of the askew screen. There is a comfort in their willingness to disregard any timid tendencies for sake of song and new friends. The microphone is passed around like a peace pipe and like many other nations in Asia; karaoke is considered both a past time and a way of life. An act of reverence and childish congeniality all at once – a conundrum that allures foreigners first with awkward anticipation, then with courteous courtship – for song is truly a language that transcends all language barriers.

Nene did not get the opportunity to go the college and like most of his family will fall into the fishing business as well as any opportunities the growing amount of tourists seem to generate. Yet, despite the apparent gap in our two worlds, I am eagerly welcomed to his home to enjoy the catch of the day; a homemade grilled fish dinner prepared by his mother. The kitchen lies just behind the karaoke machine around an inclined bend dipping into the water below. The wood burning stove is sizzling with the sweet aroma of adobo sauce, a soy based blend of garlic and spice which is considered the staple of the Philippines. The stove rests upon the same brick-work pattern of dark cement blocks as the house. The interior walls match the exterior and the nipa leaf roof is placed over the foundation like an awkward jigsaw puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.

Woman stands in front of local store

As I bask in the fragrance of the sautéed fish and the harmonious hospitality of my surroundings it is not hard to appreciate the allure of the Philippines. Jovial curiosity and inquiring eyes circumference me, piercing my peripheral vision with the smile of humans who are truly happy in a paradise they call home. A castaway is never alone in the company of a Philippino. As Nene starts up the crackling karaoke box to interlude the dinner, the moon begins to reflect off of the clear water; illuminating his face with a spotlight. This particular patch of sand is his home. Though the ambience is more like an anecdote from the Jungle Book, our companionship seems to transcend these boundaries, making this Mowgli a particularly tangible tale. The words of the song drift off the screen into the empty night, drawing neighbors and family members down the dirt path to Nene’s hut by the water. Boats float by carrying new travelers past the village. He eagerly beckons for me to take center stage or anyone who would care to reverie in the generosity of his smile.

Back up the beach beneath the nipa leaf roof, Jogi is snapping open another bottle of San Miguel. The girls behind the bar offer me a menu, trotting towards the bar with a bashful giddiness in every beat of their subtle steps. They recognize me from my off-key Sinatra ballad to New York, New York last night. The hit had apparently not gone unnoticed. A week on Sugar Beach has slipped by providing enough time for these friends to turn into family. The 70 somewhat familiar villagers and travel companions I have accumulated blend with the more alien faces of fresh forlorn travelers sloshing up against the shores. Weary from the daylong excursion, they stumble of the bobbing ship into the earthy sand amongst a group of complacent companions. The smiles they’re wearing seem to say in an almost instantaneous manner that could only be perceived as Philippino – ‘Welcome to our paradise.’

Soaking in the Steam, Wulai

Nestled away between mountainous valleys southeast of Taipei City, lie the frothing hot springs of Wulai, a place noted for its transparent, odorless water.  This geothermic byproduct is siphoned into public bathhouses, private hotels, and soaked-in naturally by visitors of all ages.  Wulai is known as “hot and poisonous” which is a translation of the Atayal phrase kirofu ulai.  Don’t let this name cast any admonition.  These hot springs contain elements of alkaline sodium bicarbonate that are known to benefit the skin; however, water in this aboriginal sanctuary can naturally reach up to 80C.

Interior of hot spring hotel, Wulai

Drawing in all ages

Taiwanese travelers make up the majority of the masses in Wulai, but hot springs are drawing in a large amount of foreign tourists more and more every day.  The most popular hot springs are private rooms which can be rented by the hour or in a hotel. Hourly rooms usually come equipped with a flat screen TV and accompanying mirrors that make the seemingly miniscule room appear larger in size.  These rooms come in a variety of designs depending upon your taste, but for as little as NT$600 an hour, a luxurious marble or wooden designed room can place you in the proper period for relaxation.

A number of the private hotel hot springs are settled upon cliffs overlooking the creek that creeps through the center of the small town.  These completely wooden paneled rooms are accented with a touch of colonial Japan, fully equipped with paper sliding doors.  Beyond these doors awaits a full room solely dedicated the hot tub and bathroom. The wooden features that accent this room, as well as the fine craftsmanship, makes sliding into this interlude of escape a smooth transition.  If a cool night happens to blow its way in, crack open the windows and let the steam fade into the moonlit mountains beyond.

Hot spring water should always be tested before going in and it is generally said that soaking intervals should be kept to 30 minutes.  If you are bathing in an outdoors hot spring, it is important to shower before entering to maintain the water’s purity.

The Nanshi Creek trickles down the mountainous town through a ravine.  This nebulous creek can be followed upstream to the Wulai waterfall which you can walk to or take a small carnival train.

Natural hot spring

Aboriginal cuisine

The thunderous churn of water is only outdone by the jovial smiles of shop owners dotting the cliffside.  The tribe’s traditional cuisine and handicrafts can be sampled conveniently in between most hot spring hotels.  If you didn’t know any better, you’d probably guess from the number of street vendors selling sausages that these greasy links were the staple food; but upon further inspection, a vast array of homespun restaurants appear ready to dish out a variety of soups and noodles more customary to the locals.

Only a slingshot away from Taipei City, Wulai’s incipient popularity is giving way to further hotel development.  It’s not hard to see how this steamy get-a-way has become the perfect weekend trip for those looking to displace themselves from the bustle of Taiwan’s city life.