On the occurences of July 12: in which I finally discuss the town of Dali, there is more rain, and it is, in fact, A Small World After All

Just a quick note off the top: please do comment on these posts if you want, as I will read and respond to them (as appropriate) when I'm back out from behind the Bamboo Curtain.

Okay... Dali! When we arrived in Dali, around midnight on Monday night, we had to find a place to stay. The hostels and lodges Alan knew about were all booked, so we ended up in a slightly grotty hotel in the city center. Dali is a town with well-preserved and maintainted historic architecture, the style of which dates back to the Ming dynasty. As I understand it, much of old town Dali is maintained in its historic appearance as a cultural/ tourist draw, but whether or not it's an artificial quaintness, it's very pleasant. The old town of Dali is contained by ancient stone walls, guarded at each side by an imposing pagoda. It is this old town, the city center, where most tourists stay. Outside the city center there are more modern buildings, though I discovered once I ventured outside the town that it is by no means as built up as the area around Kunming. In any event, finding a hotel inside the city walls at a late hour was a bit of an accomplishment.

It was on our way to Dali that I realized that I was going to be just a bit of a princess about something: I still haven't used a non-Western (squat) toilet. I understand completely, both from my friends Anne and Laila's stories of travelling and from reading about such things, that the squat toilets are considered to be both more hygenic and better for one's elimination processes. However, I am just quite frankly not convinced that I am coordinated enough to simultaneously not pee on my shoes AND keep any and all items of clothing, not to mention my actual bare ass, from touching any unsavory surfaces. So. To Alan's great amusement, I was happy enough in our tatty two-room quad just because I could use a "proper" toilet. I keep trying to explain that boys, not needing to sit down to pee, don't have the sympathy they should.

The next morning, we hustled over to the Tibetan lodge, where Alan had stayed before, to book a room for the night. At first they offered us a triple, with one big bed and one small one, and... a squat toilet. I pouted, and they offered us a two room quad. Alan checked out the room, and told me it was a squat toilet. I pouted a little more, but acquiesced. We collected our bags from the other hotel, and came back to the lodge to have breakfast. When we got to our room, it was very nice, with hardwood floors and a loft. And... a western toilet. Alan is a brat. And I was a happy camper. I was even happier when I peeled back the bedspread to find an very pleasant duvet in a clean white cover, and pillows soft enough that I didn't really need to use the one I brought from home (I brought it for the airplane, but have been damn glad of it ever since... I am a spoiled American, this I know, but Chinese beds and pillows are by and large quite hard by our standards).

The only fly in the ointment was the rain. Dali has a spectacular setting in what I think may be actual foothills to the Tibetan Himalayas. Unfortunately, the spactacular green peaks were obscured by fog and rain. The rain also meant that we were unable to participate in some of Dali's prime attractions, such as taking chairlifts or riding horses up the hills to see temples (and scenery).

Dali is the historic home of the Bai people, who have a connection I have yet to quite understand to Genghis Khan and the Mongol hordes, but who apparently established a kingdom based in Dali for a number of centuries. The Bai have a very rich folk tradition, with handicrafts reminiscent of the Hmong embroidery I am familiar with from my Minneapolis days, and beautifully decorated buildings. As one of China's offically recognized ethnic minorites, which the government has decided it has an interest in preserving (presumably for intra-chinese tourist purposes), the Bai are exempt from the one-child rule. I am not entirely sure how this reconciles with what Alan tells me is the Chinese government's preferred method of dealing with ethnic conflict/unrest, which is simply to send in more Han Chinese settlers to an area (we joked about the Borg, but it seems that is in some regards the plan, essentially a "we will come for your women and livelihood, then open shops and turn it into a tourist zone"). It would appear that some people have learned the lesson about not starting land wars in Asia.

The streets here teem with women in "ethnic" Bai garb... cheap polyester simulacra of what must have originally been stunningly beautiful embroidered garments. Many of the older women are simultaneously handicraft peddlers and drug pushers. Marijuana and even hashish are easy to come by here in Dali, as the town has become a well-established stop on the global backpacker trail. As you walk down the street, little old women shove pictures of their wares in your face and ask you to "looky looky" and then, if you decline, say "smoky smoky?" It's rather reminiscent of walking through Washington Square Park and hearing the dealers muttering under their breath, "smoke smoke smoke smoke pills smoke smoke smoke." The effect of having drugs pushed by little old ladies in ethnic garb, however, is on the hilarious side- or would be if it weren't hard to be conscious of the fact that they've been forced into this kind of self-commodification for the benefit of the tourist trade, as a result of having been assimilated by the Chinese governmental Borg.

While Alan went off on a fact-finding mission, Christoph and I wandered the streets of Dali. There are a couple of main Western tourist streets, as well as a couple of primary mercantile streets. Our first foray took us to an area that was neither of these, demarcated, as we noted later, by the lack of pushers and hustlers.

Christoph has founded a non-profit organization focused on getting junior high school students to improvise music, and he is trying to shoot a documentary about musicians in China. For more about his organization, please see www.mima.org, where there is also a link you can follow to his blog about his musical discoveries here. These interests mean that he is always on the lookout for musicians he can film playing and interview about their art. We had been told that there would be music at the lodge that evening, so C was somewhat mollified, but he was still very happy to find a drummer in a cafe at the end of a less-touristed street. I, on the other hand, was gratified to find that Emily the Strange is becoming a popular icon in China as well as the U.S., as there was a sign posted for a party bearing her image.

I haven't travelled around China enough to make a firm declaration about whether or not the stores here are completely typical, but those which are meant to cater to non-tourists are mostly notable for their similarities: from a garage-like storefront (albeit one with an aesthetically pleasing iron or wood door) things for sale are set out on the steps leading down to the street. This is most alarming and most picturesque when it's the bowls of food outside restaurants, ranging from onions, alien-looking vegetables, and huge mushrooms, to live eels and fish and giant hunks of hanging meats. you point to what you want and they cook it- I've been too much of a wuss to sample this particular form of cuisine, though some of the mushrooms look pretty amazing, mostly because Alan told me he was eating dog for months before he thought to ask what the meat in his tasty steamed buns was. I put him on notice that his main mission is to prevent my eating dog in any way, shape, or form. Other than finding me western toilets, of course.

Although the rain was a minor irritant, Christoph and I had a fine time wandering around Dali and looking at things. I found 35mm film for about two dollars a roll, and we watched old men playing cards and mah jongg in a public park. We also went picture happy with the local architecture, which is highly decorated. The main buildings are a dark grey-ish blue and white, with brown tiled roofs, and black and white brush painting for decoration. There are also carved red and gold wooden panels on fancier buildings, and here, at least, artisans haven't lsot the art of making those carvings by hand, as we wandered past a storefront where they were doing so.

I found a flower market and was very intrigued by some giant pink flowers I think must be related to water lilies. I was happier, however, to find a fruit seller where I could buy rambutan and mangosteen. On our mad dash out of Kunming, we had hustled from the train to the bus station past many fruit and vegetable sellers, and I had caught a glimpse of something I suspected was the elusive mangosteen. I'm sure Jess can link to the pertinent NYT article in the comments here, but suffice it to say that we've both been intrigued by the idea of these fruits since the Times published a rhapsodic ode to them. They are not legal for import to the U.S. So, when I found a woman selling them here, I snapped one up. I have had rambutan before, and very much enjoy the fruit, which looks like a large, hairy lychee, of a raspberry hue with yellow tips to the "hair." The mangosteens (of which I purchased one before being certain that was what it was, but later Googling confirmed my suspicions)are about the size of one's fist, and resemble an eggplant in color, with a stem that is also similar to an eggplant. The skin is hard, like a passionfruit, but gives way easily to a fingernail, revealing a half-inch or so of pith. The skin bleeds a beautiful deep magenta, that I am happy I didn't have to attempt to remove from my clothing. The fruit itself is textured like a lychee, around a pit, but is segmented like an orange. It is, in fact, delicious, both tangy and sweet, rather like what I always want a lime rickey to taste like (though it never does). More mangosteens pour moi!!!

Christoph and Alan decided they wanted to go jam with the drummer, so I set out to explore more of the town. I found a random communist statue/monument/building area in a square, of which I took a picture. There were Chinese tourists posing with the statue, so I assumed this was kosher, but when I tried to go for the artsy shot of Comrade Statue, a soldier yelled at me across the square, "no picture!" so I moved on. This was one of only two times I've been prohibited from taking pictures, the other being of a storefront dentistry operation. In both cases, I managed to snap some kind of photo before getting yelled at.

I have vowed to be more ruthless this trip with photography, and to take more pictures of people, which has always been my weakness. I feel guilty treating people as scenery/objects, though they are frequently the best photos. I am torn between the relative discretion yet potentially poorer image quality and clear tourist self-declaration of my digital camera and the more blatantly obvious yet National Geographic looking spectacle of my Big Momma Camera Lens (75-300 telephoto on a Canon Rebel body). I always feel like if I look like I know what I'm doing it might be less insulting, but the Big Momma Lens also makes it very OBVIOUS what I'm doing. I could, of course, stick to the phone cam, but that will give me no photo albums.

When I returned to the lodge, I found Alan and Christoph in the restaurant downstairs with a Taiwanese-organized tour group who had invited them to join them for dinner, which invitation was quickly extended to me. The group (consisting of the friends, families, and acquaintances of Mr. Wang, a groovy Taiwanese record producer who organized the trip in conjunction with a man who turned out to be the owner of the lodge we were staying in) was incredibly warm, fun, and friendly. I sat down and was greeted by Rita, who, like many Asian women, completely doesn't look her age (mid-40's), her husband Joe, and her daughter Catherine, a sweet, pretty college student who is a Russian major and speaks very good English, as well as Peter, a hotel manager who joked that my name was "like Morgan Stanley?" I hastened to assure him that yes, it was the same word, and no, it was not my FAMILY name. I have to take a moment here to thank my parents once again for their excellent taste in choosing my name.. it is easily pronounced by most cultures, and doesn't seem to mean anything more untoward than the German "morning."

In short order, two musicians who were also travelling with the group began to play. These were Akbar and Tursun, two guitarists from Xinjiang, or, as they would probably prefer it, Eastern Turkestan. In keeping with the geopolitics I mentioned in my previous post, they are clearly not ethnically Chinese. Akbar looks like he could be Native American or part Japanese, while Tursun looks Mediterranean. The residents of Xinjiang have their own language, which, unlike the proliferating Chinese dialects which are as different from each other as French and Portuguese, is related to Eastern European languages like Turkish. The people themselves are referred to, I think by thimselves and not just the Han majority, as "Uighur" which of course sounds oddly close to "wigger" to American ears. They played a lot of songs, mostly in a gypsy/flamenco vein, and it was a joy to watch. Lynn, a Taiwanese manager and event producer, told me that Mr. Wang was producing Akbar and Tursun's record album for a release in the fall. In short order, the musicians invited Alan and Christoph to play with them, and there was much entertainment to be had. As the lead singer, Akbar is an enormous ham (Tursun being the quieter guitarist who has spent hours exchanging lessons with Alan), and he and Mr. Wang mugged for each other and the audience consistently. Catherine provided some translation services, as did David, an incredibly kind Taiwanese math teacher who travelled with his ten year old son (his son had a quite Beavis and Butthead -like fascination with fire, and continually played with the candle flames).

At some point, Alan mentioned that I worked for MTV, and Lynn said, "oh, there is a Taiwanese boy who works for MTV!" I said, thinking, this really can't be happening, "Ken Chien?" and she said, "yes! Ken Chien! I met him in Vegas this summer." Lynn, it turns out, sometimes works with Ken's mom. It is a small, small, world. I mean, when I was in line in a bus station in Prague, I once met a woman who knew my high school friend Beau from college, but I had seen her U of MN ID and commented on it. This incident makes me rather believe in the six degrees of separation, even for remote Chinese villagers. Not that any of us were remote or villagers, but the connections probably exist.

At times, I felt like the only person in the house without musical talent. I have always considered it the great tragedy of my life that I love music but can't sing a note, and the evening really made me feel that music is a special kind of universal language. I really wished that some of my musician friends, particularly Emily, Bo, Aram and Dunia, and Josh, could have been there. As the night went on, Joe played a lot of American folk songs, David played the harmonica (including a round of "Dixie," which cracked me up to a degree that I couldn't even begin to decide how to explain to Catherine), and Lynn sang beautiful harmonies to many of the folk songs and improvisations. Mr. Wang also sang and played guitar, and occasionally gave an intimation of the talent he would demonstrate later, Tuvan throat singing.

It was a magical evening, and we weren't the only ones who thought so. As such places tend to, the lodge we were at attracted an international clientele, including Nicole, a Dutch girl travelling with Alan, her English boyfriend, and a group of French students, with whom I have been practicing my lamentable francais.

A note on language- ordinarily, when I am in a country where people don't speak English, my urge is to speak French. In China, somehow that urge was shut off and I reverted quickly to smiling and pointing and making friendly faces and using hand gestures. Part of it, of course, is that the Chinese people in general seem to have a different physical vocabulary as well as a more vested interest in being opaque in their facial expressions than Americans and Europeans are used to. This was completely untrue of our Taiwanese friends, or of Akbar and Tursun, who acted so much like Italian or Spanish people in both their mannerisms and interactions with the people around them (including both musicians' humorous reactions when Akbar's cell phone kept ringing). Perhaps the Meditteranean feel pre-prompted my urge to lapse into French-thinking, but when Akbar, who speaks almost no English, was trying to talk to Sandrine, a French girl, and said "je m'appelle," it was like a default switch was triggered, and for the rest of the night I kept having to fight the urge to speak to him in French when Catherine or Alan weren't around to translate English to Chinese and back. I suppose this is preferable to the Ugly American urge to TALK LOUDER when people don't understand you.

I've actually found myself doing the thing I did in Africa, changing the rhythm of my speech when interacting with non-native speakers, though it's a different rhythm. In Africa, I modelled it (unconsciously) on Laila's singsong, here, having been aware of the way I changed my speech in Africa, I more consciously imitated Alan's very formal, yet choppy method of speaking. Not to mention simplifying everything to match the Chinese system of verbs having no tenses and nouns seemingly not having articles. "Please- I take taxi? Where I find it? OK."

After the evening's concert/party/jam session, which was topped off with an impromptu birthday celebration for Cristoph (Lynn arranged it on the spur of the moment when I told her it would happen at midnight), we were invited to go with Akbar, Tursun, Mr. Wang, Lynn, and David to get a late night snack. At this point it was 1 AM, so I declined my chance to sample this variety of cuisine. Jonathan Gold I am sadly not.

It was in this restaurant that Mr. Wang gave us a truly impressive demonstration of the Tuvan throat singing, which sounds quite a bit like a digeridoo. Alan, who is as multi-creative as Ms. MLE Halderman, gave it a go, but hasn't quite mastered it. It was also in this restaurant that Akbar and I formalized our interaction, which consists of his yelling "Mooooorgan!" across a room, while I respond with "Akbar!" in equally Greek/Russian melodramatic fashion. He then says "yeah?" and I say, "ok!" which, aside from his telling me "eyes beautiful" is about the limit of his English, and, needless to say, my Chinese or Uighur. Fortunately, I invented a fictitious boyfriend early in our interaction, so I don't think I'm in any danger of being dragged off to the sands of Kashgar (though who knows what I've smilingly nodded my agreement to), but Alan is very excited about the idea of being able to show up at my holiday party with tales of "The Uighur who loved Morgan." I think he mostly just likes the false cognate with "wigger" but y'all may indugle him if you will.

Up next: more rain, a power outage, a tourist trap or two, a sad kitten, rice paddies, and another late night, this time with drinking.