Inexplicably, going around the world was something I wanted to do; it meant something to me.
What?
I just looked at the huge map of our journey that is out in our central meeting location, and I see that what took about 90 days on the other side of the planet is taking 20 something on this, the Pacific side.
Swooooosh and we are almost home… Costa Rica this weekend, then the Panama Canal crossing, then Miami and Elizabeth.
“Turn around and you’re two, turn around and you’re four, turn around and you’re a young man going out of the door.” (If you are female, you are used to using some imagination to see how the lyrics apply to you.)
I graded my last set of final papers today. I have never given so many A’s in my life. I suppose it helps to be in a closed environment, so very close to our various duties. I have not been late or absent once myself!
Neither have I begun to digest or even report the highlights of my journey…
How Lyn, one of the ‘lifelong learners,’ and I ended up sharing a lift up the mountainside in Guilin, China, how we tacitly agreed to share the silence as we glided through scented blossoming trees and pine tress, and the songs of birds, and dartings of butterflies. Half an hour up in glorious silence with a space for the birds in our ears, and a space for the pine in our nostrils, and half an hour down with a space for the distant mountains and clouds in our eyes. How we have carried away this connectedness for having shut up together!
How I tried to bargain for two silver-framed agate bowls, and the man who sold them, how he trapped me physically, and then, oh she wasn’t a man and she was holding on to me physically such that I suddenly realized I would need either rescue or strategy or both. I began to sing and then to dance with her, twirling around and turning myself out of the embrace, calling for Evelyn to come rescue me from down the street where she had gotten to. And she did come laughing hard and taking photos… yes, eventually I shall post one. How the young Chinese consumers were amused (or appalled) to see an older generation American dancing to rock music in the promenade in front of the young fashion store, out of which boomed some techno-dance sounds, familiar from my own youth.
How the professors at the art University appreciated my brush technique for bamboo—yes, they really did! And then how disappointed they were that it did not translate to clouds and how they had to re-evaluate me from having been almost amongst their ranks to being a student with promise. It was good enough praise to cause me to buy a set of brushes. Yes, indeed, got potential to realize in some lifetime…
How, as we departed the hotel in Guilin that last morning, I heard people saying my name and room number, “Anne, 525… Anne…Where is Anne?” And I sat on the bus contentedly knowing I had checked out early and paid for everything. And now they are at the bus saying, “but she left something in the room.” It was my stuffed piggy, Bethan, delivered to me on the bus for all to see. So I was outed as having brought a stuffed toy, not only on the ship, but on my field explorations. I explained that she served as a spare pillow; the explanation made it worse.
I have not even mentioned how I loved Mt. Koya-san and the mad monk, Kurt, who sent me off from the monastery with incense and sake, after a couple of long and lovely conversations over my two days there. How the elaborate tantric service in the dark temple filled my senses, leaping flames, singing gongs and cymbals and bells and voices, smell and sting of incense, taste of fruit, movement of muscle; and repose….
How it was to walk for hour after hour through the twelve hundred year old cemetery in a forest, miles long with two thousand stone monuments glowing in the forest as clouds gathered and parted overhead; and then to dash through the breaking storm for a late lunch of quiche and curry, cake and coffee. Yes, I did have my umbrella and when I arrived at the monastery gate in the cold and wet afternoon, I was grateful to be home and soon even more grateful when a young monk brought hot sake to my room!
I had prepared myself for rigors, told myself the monastery would likely have no heat….
The next morning this same young monk offered me a lift to the tram station for my ride down the mountain to the rail station. I sat in the back seat telling him that I had a contemplative heart but a busy life. “Me too,” he said. And he told me how he had been at the monastery for one month of a year’s training assignment, how hard he worked, how tired he was, how he wanted the hell out of there. And I remembered my own almost-convent youth, how postulancy was so much about scrubbing and novitiate about deprivation. I felt such tenderness for him; now and then he comes to mind and I mark the time with him as he counts down the days till next March when he will return home to Hiroshima.
Suddenly, I have been around the world… and shopped… and now must face packing and shipping… and conscience. I have been around the world. I often fall asleep with the predictable lyrics from that old Heart song, “Mamma ocean, hold me to you,” as she lifts me up and drops me down in the cadence of her great walking across the planet.
She has carried me to Brazil, and to Africa, and to India, and to Vietnam and Cambodia, to China and to Japan, to Honolulu, and now to Costa Rica. I have been around the world, all in one go… as I dreamed in my childhood that I would do… and it is a dream of water and air and apparitions, like a magic show, or a dream of a magic show…
I begin to wonder, how do you follow that? What do you do after you have gone around the world? Perhaps commercial space flight has some value, after all!
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Aloha
I had one day on Oahu, one day. And, when I stopped to count, I realized I'd been there for 10 days a couple of years ago, and, before that, to celebrate my PhD in 1992. How very long ago that is, and even longer ago 1978, when Barbara and I lived in Wahiawa with Sue and then in Waimalu, over the grocery store.
Courtney and I rented a car and drove to the north shore for coffee in Haleiwah, and we waded in the water at the beach park, which is kind of spruced up with a stone wall and parking spaces, but the old bridge is still there with its beautiful concrete arches. Then on to Waiamea Bay for a swim in the most perfect swimming waters in the world. The currents were strong but the water and weather were perfect and I had the most satisfying fifteen minutes of swimming I have had since I left there in 1992. Courtney was on a mission to have a burrito for lunch. I did not think her chances were good on the North Shore, but there are now three Mexican restaurants in Haleiwah, so we had burritos and Negra Modelo beer. Then we went off to find Waimalu shopping center and Baldwin's Sweet Shop, which is right next door to its old location, bigger, cleaner, better organized but still ragged around the edges and truly local with a huge shave-ice menu. Yah, I get one passion fruit wid everyting, asuki bean and ice cream. Ono!
Courtney and I rented a car and drove to the north shore for coffee in Haleiwah, and we waded in the water at the beach park, which is kind of spruced up with a stone wall and parking spaces, but the old bridge is still there with its beautiful concrete arches. Then on to Waiamea Bay for a swim in the most perfect swimming waters in the world. The currents were strong but the water and weather were perfect and I had the most satisfying fifteen minutes of swimming I have had since I left there in 1992. Courtney was on a mission to have a burrito for lunch. I did not think her chances were good on the North Shore, but there are now three Mexican restaurants in Haleiwah, so we had burritos and Negra Modelo beer. Then we went off to find Waimalu shopping center and Baldwin's Sweet Shop, which is right next door to its old location, bigger, cleaner, better organized but still ragged around the edges and truly local with a huge shave-ice menu. Yah, I get one passion fruit wid everyting, asuki bean and ice cream. Ono!
The Pricey Sweetness of Japan
I was simply taken aback by the deep sweetness of the Japanese people, and I find it hard to describe, except to say that they are so deeply wed to beautiful forms and to pro-social self-discipline that kindness and beauty are everywhere. And, of course, people pay a very big price for this... Let me describe the memory that most conveys this...
Japanese people fall asleep on the trains almost as a matter of course; they are, like Americans, very tired people, but for different reasons. They sit carefully in a spot, never taking more space than the most compact version of their bodies requires. So they sit with their shopping bags and/or briefcase on their laps, and with their elbows bent at their sides, palms open and upwards on top of their burdens, and then they fall forward bent in the back only. And so they sleep, not taking a quarter inch more than absolutely necessary.
I saw a woman in a remote rural train station take items out of a grocery bag in which something had broken and spilled. She took a wash rag from her purse and proceeded to clean each item and then to throw the broken and offending package away, returning to carefully wipe off the seat of the station bench.
Everywhere you look in Japan there is beauty, beautiful gardens, beautiful architecture, beautiful food, beautiful clothes, beautiful boxes for the beautiful food, beautiful bags for trivial purchases. And no effort is spared in manners or generosity.
They are tired from the effort of it all and they cannot each always live up to the level of required performance. They have a high suicide rate, very high, as high as the level of expectation for beautiful and generous performance. Still, it is their sweetness and generosity that I carry away in my heart, very differently from any other place I visited. I am sad that Japan is so far away because I would love to be there often and long.
Japanese people fall asleep on the trains almost as a matter of course; they are, like Americans, very tired people, but for different reasons. They sit carefully in a spot, never taking more space than the most compact version of their bodies requires. So they sit with their shopping bags and/or briefcase on their laps, and with their elbows bent at their sides, palms open and upwards on top of their burdens, and then they fall forward bent in the back only. And so they sleep, not taking a quarter inch more than absolutely necessary.
I saw a woman in a remote rural train station take items out of a grocery bag in which something had broken and spilled. She took a wash rag from her purse and proceeded to clean each item and then to throw the broken and offending package away, returning to carefully wipe off the seat of the station bench.
Everywhere you look in Japan there is beauty, beautiful gardens, beautiful architecture, beautiful food, beautiful clothes, beautiful boxes for the beautiful food, beautiful bags for trivial purchases. And no effort is spared in manners or generosity.
They are tired from the effort of it all and they cannot each always live up to the level of required performance. They have a high suicide rate, very high, as high as the level of expectation for beautiful and generous performance. Still, it is their sweetness and generosity that I carry away in my heart, very differently from any other place I visited. I am sad that Japan is so far away because I would love to be there often and long.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Shanghai-ed by Tea in China
I had one day in Shanghai, so I took a cab into the center of the city to begin my day at the Shanghai Museum. I went first to the tea room and had a pot of green tea while two gay Asian businessmen drank espresso at the table next to me. I looked at the bronze collection… hmm… it was a rainy day and I had not a lot of energy after my trip to the interior. In the museum shop I bought a brush on silk painting of a little monk playing a flute while riding on the back of a charging bull—a depiction of the spirit of Buddhism, if ever I saw one!
I left the museum with my bags in one hand and umbrella in the other. As I headed for the taxi stand in the rain, a young man offered his umbrella, and asked if I had enjoyed the museum... and so began the adventure of the day. Soon we were joined in conversation by a friend of his who came out of the museum, then another young woman joined us. I shared my plans for the day and took advice on how to change them to get the best of Shanghai. As I was about to set out as directed, they invited me to come with them to a “tea ritual.” Off I walked with these nice English-speaking Chinese college students, in search of the tea shop. Of course, I did have half a thought to pay attention to my surroundings. Of course I knew the name of the street that I was on and approximately where it was in relation to the museum, of course. And I knew that I was walking off in a city that was entirely unknown to me, and with three very nice strangers, and, of course… but they were so nice.
I trundled along, chatting happily as turned in to the Champ Elysee, walked into a mall, found the tea shop, where we were led to a back room for the tea-tasting. The room was small and dim with a beautiful table made from slabs of a tree. The hostess wore a beautiful red silk jacket and stood behind the table, while the four of us sat on stools in front of the table. I asked to see a price list… ah, 38 yuen. I could afford that, I thought, while red-jacket assured me that they gladly accepted credit cards. So, the ‘tea ritual’ began, and it lasted for almost three hours, a progression from tea to tea, with demonstrations of making each tea and instructions for drinking each tea, sweet fruit tea with rose petals, bitter tea whose first taste is sweet, but whose second taste chokes, tea that sprouts flowers when boiling water is poured over it, tea that is good for digestion, or for heart health, tea for gender enhancement—ah, jasmine tea should make me feel like woman. I complimented my young friends on their unusually large vocabularies in English—phenomenal—a word they all understood! Even the young woman demonstrating and explaining the teas, who did not speak English, laughed at my jokes before they were translated. I noticed, too, how I was complimented on looking young for my age, and how they said that fair people age so much better than darker people, a patently ridiculous notion that may be soothing for some older white people.
I offered to pick up the tab as our tasting session came near to closure. Of course I was given the opportunity to purchase some tea to take with me, in a free canister! And, of course, I offered to pick up the tab. We were all tea-sated and happy from hours of conversation. We all selected tea to take away with us. Oh. I had not made that offer. But I got the bill! I asked for a calculator to be sure of what I was computing. Yes, indeed, my tea party was going to cost 327 US dollars. Now the fact that I was in a back room with four strangers in a city I don’t know and without a cell phone was central in my thoughts. I said I would like to take a moment to think, while they acted embarrassed, offering to return their teas. I did think and then I said, “I would like to pay for this and then I would like to take a taxi back to the ship.” Very nice. And I allowed them to walk to the taxi with me and translate my map and instructions to the ship which I had written in Chinese on a scrap of paper. Of course, I felt foolish, of course, taken for a ride, but at least I was on my way to the ship in a government taxi, or so I hoped!
When I returned to the ship, I met other people who had spent very expensive afternoons in parallel tea rituals. It occurred to me that it was up to me to interpret my experience, to notice how I had moved between pleasure and pain in my risk-taking afternoon; and then I thought, “Why settle on one interpretation of such a multi-faceted event? Let it be in all its complexity.” I had a lovely time with the tea and with the people and I was deceived and ripped-off; okay, then. But I also was able to “get off the bus,” the tourism bus on which everything is canned and prepared, “Stop here for photo, five minutes, best view.”
It may not have been the best view, but it was real and interesting… oh, yes, and expensive.
I left the museum with my bags in one hand and umbrella in the other. As I headed for the taxi stand in the rain, a young man offered his umbrella, and asked if I had enjoyed the museum... and so began the adventure of the day. Soon we were joined in conversation by a friend of his who came out of the museum, then another young woman joined us. I shared my plans for the day and took advice on how to change them to get the best of Shanghai. As I was about to set out as directed, they invited me to come with them to a “tea ritual.” Off I walked with these nice English-speaking Chinese college students, in search of the tea shop. Of course, I did have half a thought to pay attention to my surroundings. Of course I knew the name of the street that I was on and approximately where it was in relation to the museum, of course. And I knew that I was walking off in a city that was entirely unknown to me, and with three very nice strangers, and, of course… but they were so nice.
I trundled along, chatting happily as turned in to the Champ Elysee, walked into a mall, found the tea shop, where we were led to a back room for the tea-tasting. The room was small and dim with a beautiful table made from slabs of a tree. The hostess wore a beautiful red silk jacket and stood behind the table, while the four of us sat on stools in front of the table. I asked to see a price list… ah, 38 yuen. I could afford that, I thought, while red-jacket assured me that they gladly accepted credit cards. So, the ‘tea ritual’ began, and it lasted for almost three hours, a progression from tea to tea, with demonstrations of making each tea and instructions for drinking each tea, sweet fruit tea with rose petals, bitter tea whose first taste is sweet, but whose second taste chokes, tea that sprouts flowers when boiling water is poured over it, tea that is good for digestion, or for heart health, tea for gender enhancement—ah, jasmine tea should make me feel like woman. I complimented my young friends on their unusually large vocabularies in English—phenomenal—a word they all understood! Even the young woman demonstrating and explaining the teas, who did not speak English, laughed at my jokes before they were translated. I noticed, too, how I was complimented on looking young for my age, and how they said that fair people age so much better than darker people, a patently ridiculous notion that may be soothing for some older white people.
I offered to pick up the tab as our tasting session came near to closure. Of course I was given the opportunity to purchase some tea to take with me, in a free canister! And, of course, I offered to pick up the tab. We were all tea-sated and happy from hours of conversation. We all selected tea to take away with us. Oh. I had not made that offer. But I got the bill! I asked for a calculator to be sure of what I was computing. Yes, indeed, my tea party was going to cost 327 US dollars. Now the fact that I was in a back room with four strangers in a city I don’t know and without a cell phone was central in my thoughts. I said I would like to take a moment to think, while they acted embarrassed, offering to return their teas. I did think and then I said, “I would like to pay for this and then I would like to take a taxi back to the ship.” Very nice. And I allowed them to walk to the taxi with me and translate my map and instructions to the ship which I had written in Chinese on a scrap of paper. Of course, I felt foolish, of course, taken for a ride, but at least I was on my way to the ship in a government taxi, or so I hoped!
When I returned to the ship, I met other people who had spent very expensive afternoons in parallel tea rituals. It occurred to me that it was up to me to interpret my experience, to notice how I had moved between pleasure and pain in my risk-taking afternoon; and then I thought, “Why settle on one interpretation of such a multi-faceted event? Let it be in all its complexity.” I had a lovely time with the tea and with the people and I was deceived and ripped-off; okay, then. But I also was able to “get off the bus,” the tourism bus on which everything is canned and prepared, “Stop here for photo, five minutes, best view.”
It may not have been the best view, but it was real and interesting… oh, yes, and expensive.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Pop culture in China
Here are two Chinese pop culture phrases I thought you'd enjoy... First we have "ma-ma, hu-hu" which literally means "horse-horse, tiger-tiger" and means "so-so," as in "the lunch was ma-ma, hu-hu."
And, secondly, in China they use the phrase "the little bush" to refer to the President of the USA.
And, secondly, in China they use the phrase "the little bush" to refer to the President of the USA.
After Earth Day
Dear Blog-readers,
I have exciting stories from China, where I was virtually kidnapped by tea traders, and Japan where I stayed in a mountain-top Buddhist monastery... and many reflections on both countries... but I cannot take the time to write these until after EARTH DAY events. We will be in Hawaii for Earth Day but will not spend even one night there, and the day that we sail away, my students and I will be doing a Global Studies session for the whole ship. Preparing for this will keep me very busy for the next eight days!
I have exciting stories from China, where I was virtually kidnapped by tea traders, and Japan where I stayed in a mountain-top Buddhist monastery... and many reflections on both countries... but I cannot take the time to write these until after EARTH DAY events. We will be in Hawaii for Earth Day but will not spend even one night there, and the day that we sail away, my students and I will be doing a Global Studies session for the whole ship. Preparing for this will keep me very busy for the next eight days!
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Vietnam, The Victorious
I only saw Ho Chi Minh City from a bus, and Saigon up close, so all my impression of Vietnam is taken from this limited point of view. Having said that, these people are David to the world's Goliaths; at least, that is how they see it! They have whipped the French, Chinese, and Americans and established their socialist state with a thriving market economy. Go figure. If anything, they seem to be in a gleeful moment, though there are shadows of China maybe wanting their offshore oil, and inflation maybe hurting the Vietnamese people as much as foreign investment helps them. But it is all hustle and bustle, much elbowing and shouting, spiced by a little begging.
I was walking through Saigon after purchasing my Japan Rail pass (which can only be purchased outside of Japan because it is for tourists), and I saw the Paris Boulangerie; how could I resist? And then, looking at the menu, I had to wonder what a Hawaiian pizza made in Saigon might be, so I ordered one. It took forever to make, it contained pickles where you'd expect pineapple, and it was huge. I tried to get my server to bring half of it to a table of students from the ship, but she said her boss was watching and she could not. About this time two boys, apparently brothers, came by and asked if they might clean my shoes while I dined. I declined, but when it was time to get my bill, I asked the waiter if I could give my pizza to the boys. He said that it would be kind and called them over. They took it, wary of its weirdness, and sat down at the curb to explore it, finally folding it over into a proper sandwich and taking a bite. Yuk! Splth! He ditched it in the planter box. Later, when they asked again about cleaning my shoes, I consented.
As if this were not bad enough, I had ordered some tailor-made silk suits, and, when I had them in the bag, they were too heavy to carry all the way back to the bus stop. So, there I was, overweight blond American, pouring sweat in the humid heat, having shopped too much to carry herself and her goods, hiring a cyclo, a rickshaw bicycle propelled by a skinny Vietnamese man, through the hundreds of motor bikes and cars and buses of Saigon. I would not have missed that ride for anything, as it gave me my most 'authentic' moments in Vietnam. I got to the bus right as it was departing, all my stuff with me, feeling Vietnam victorious, and getting out of town just in time... so as not to feel it too much.
I was walking through Saigon after purchasing my Japan Rail pass (which can only be purchased outside of Japan because it is for tourists), and I saw the Paris Boulangerie; how could I resist? And then, looking at the menu, I had to wonder what a Hawaiian pizza made in Saigon might be, so I ordered one. It took forever to make, it contained pickles where you'd expect pineapple, and it was huge. I tried to get my server to bring half of it to a table of students from the ship, but she said her boss was watching and she could not. About this time two boys, apparently brothers, came by and asked if they might clean my shoes while I dined. I declined, but when it was time to get my bill, I asked the waiter if I could give my pizza to the boys. He said that it would be kind and called them over. They took it, wary of its weirdness, and sat down at the curb to explore it, finally folding it over into a proper sandwich and taking a bite. Yuk! Splth! He ditched it in the planter box. Later, when they asked again about cleaning my shoes, I consented.
As if this were not bad enough, I had ordered some tailor-made silk suits, and, when I had them in the bag, they were too heavy to carry all the way back to the bus stop. So, there I was, overweight blond American, pouring sweat in the humid heat, having shopped too much to carry herself and her goods, hiring a cyclo, a rickshaw bicycle propelled by a skinny Vietnamese man, through the hundreds of motor bikes and cars and buses of Saigon. I would not have missed that ride for anything, as it gave me my most 'authentic' moments in Vietnam. I got to the bus right as it was departing, all my stuff with me, feeling Vietnam victorious, and getting out of town just in time... so as not to feel it too much.
Crying
I am generally not very good at crying; and I am sure I’d have had fewer headaches if I were better at crying. But there are times for crying, as I am learning again on this journey…
When Elizabeth was here, on the day after India when the ship was in a state of stunned silence, a student of mine sat down to tell me about her experience of singing to autistic children in India, particularly singing a greeting song that incorporated the name of this utterly inaccessible child. My student, Chelsea, started to cry and she apologized. I told her that crying is the right response to some things and that there is no need to hide it or apologize for it. She went on to say that the child smiled upon hearing her name, then clapped and winked along with the song.
In my Women’s Studies class, we decided as a group that we would watch a very graphic film on the practice of FGM (female genital mutilation) in Africa, because it is too easy to avoid what it is by just saying the ‘FGM’ acronym. So, during the portrayal of ‘the procedure’ on a twelve year old girl, there was much gasping, tightening of legs, wincing, and I decided to cry because it is something to cry about, because when we let the feeling happen we want to respond, and wanting to respond is where our humanity lives.
And, yes, when I heard the landmine victims' orchestra playing their traditional music in the jungle heat under the great trees of their homeland, I cried there, too, for both the beauty and the horror of it.
When Elizabeth was here, on the day after India when the ship was in a state of stunned silence, a student of mine sat down to tell me about her experience of singing to autistic children in India, particularly singing a greeting song that incorporated the name of this utterly inaccessible child. My student, Chelsea, started to cry and she apologized. I told her that crying is the right response to some things and that there is no need to hide it or apologize for it. She went on to say that the child smiled upon hearing her name, then clapped and winked along with the song.
In my Women’s Studies class, we decided as a group that we would watch a very graphic film on the practice of FGM (female genital mutilation) in Africa, because it is too easy to avoid what it is by just saying the ‘FGM’ acronym. So, during the portrayal of ‘the procedure’ on a twelve year old girl, there was much gasping, tightening of legs, wincing, and I decided to cry because it is something to cry about, because when we let the feeling happen we want to respond, and wanting to respond is where our humanity lives.
And, yes, when I heard the landmine victims' orchestra playing their traditional music in the jungle heat under the great trees of their homeland, I cried there, too, for both the beauty and the horror of it.
A Long History of Impermanence: Cambodia
The temple ruins all around Angkor Wat were alive with ghosts of the past, the ancient past and the just-yesterday, playing in the dance of light and shadow on intricately carved and tree-root crumbled temple walls, and playing, too, on the bodies and faces of living people. There were orchestras of land mine victims making traditional Khmer music and selling CDs outside of every temple. Buying one of these was the only time I felt like a complete idiot for attempting to bargain, which is the norm and is expected. I listened to the music, bought my CD, turned away, and, as I turned, burst into tears, real tears with shaking shoulders. People jumped to make sure I was okay. “Yes,” I said, “I am fine, but I want to cry because it hurts and it is beautiful and it just wants my tears.” One of the men was playing a leaf in his lips and it was gorgeous, the vibration of man and leaf interacting! Not to mention blind man on xylophone, legless man on flute, maimed woman on strings, all making traditional Khmer music on grass mats under the giant trees and in the steaming heat. Later, we stopped at the landmine museum, but I did not go in.
Our tour guide, Bunrith, described himself as an orphan whose father was a soldier and whose brother died in ‘the war,’ and whose sister starved to death as a child. His mother died fairly recently of a relatively normal illness. Bunrith is a university graduate in business who also trained in tourism for a year after graduation. He is now 35 and married with four children; he is intentionally recreating a big family, and he is proud of his work in tourism. He works twelve to fourteen hour days, seven days a week during the high season, with some time off in the low season. He is very proud of his life, of his country, of his work, and of his Buddhist monk King. The country is The Kingdom of Cambodia; so says my passport, and so says Bunrith. In his story you can feel ‘the story,’ of haunted memories combined with bright hope that is everywhere. People work long hours of every day and school is either morning or afternoon (because the kids need to work, too) six days a week. Siem Reap (pronounced Sim-Rip) is full of huge hotels and buffet restaurants and is hungry for tourist money, and the child peddlers are everywhere, selling bracelets made of wooden beads, postcards, interpretive books, bags, woven scarves and woven fish.... “Madame! One dollah, tree for one dollah, you buy from me! Remember tis face, see? You buy from me, okay? when you get back, you buy from me… where you from? California, oh; Sacamento!” Yes, they know the capitals of all the countries and all the states and their English is very good, so much better than my Cambodian.
The Temples are a good draw for tourism. Often I experience my camera as something of an impediment, obscuring actual experience in the process of trying to record it. Not so in Cambodia! The light and story and characters, contemporary and ancient, were compelling -- such that my camera and experience and I were one, and I am happy with resultant photographs. The temple carvings are various permutations of Hindu and Buddhist, as one generation reforms the preceding one. One builds the Shiva Lingas (abstract geometric sculptures of male and female genitals mating, with the male Shiva Linga making the statement that the yoni simply receives and contains, ‘his’ is fairly representative, ‘hers’ is a square box); and the next generation knocks these out to replace them with Buddhas. Then the next wave comes and knocks out the Buddha, replacing him with a new Shiva Linga; the dualist and monist versions of reality competing, as everywhere they seem to do. In the walls of the temples are carved Buddhist depictions of the heaven and hell realms, and Hindu depictions of the Mahayana, gods and demons churning up the sea of milk, and then humans and animals fighting in bloody procession. All of these carvings (including one very vivid stegosaurus from the 10th century!) are in various states of intactness and decay. And, over all, a few serene Buddhas, themselves in various levels of cohesion, look upon all of it as so much coming and going, impermanence in procession before the witness of consciousness.
Our tour guide, Bunrith, described himself as an orphan whose father was a soldier and whose brother died in ‘the war,’ and whose sister starved to death as a child. His mother died fairly recently of a relatively normal illness. Bunrith is a university graduate in business who also trained in tourism for a year after graduation. He is now 35 and married with four children; he is intentionally recreating a big family, and he is proud of his work in tourism. He works twelve to fourteen hour days, seven days a week during the high season, with some time off in the low season. He is very proud of his life, of his country, of his work, and of his Buddhist monk King. The country is The Kingdom of Cambodia; so says my passport, and so says Bunrith. In his story you can feel ‘the story,’ of haunted memories combined with bright hope that is everywhere. People work long hours of every day and school is either morning or afternoon (because the kids need to work, too) six days a week. Siem Reap (pronounced Sim-Rip) is full of huge hotels and buffet restaurants and is hungry for tourist money, and the child peddlers are everywhere, selling bracelets made of wooden beads, postcards, interpretive books, bags, woven scarves and woven fish.... “Madame! One dollah, tree for one dollah, you buy from me! Remember tis face, see? You buy from me, okay? when you get back, you buy from me… where you from? California, oh; Sacamento!” Yes, they know the capitals of all the countries and all the states and their English is very good, so much better than my Cambodian.
The Temples are a good draw for tourism. Often I experience my camera as something of an impediment, obscuring actual experience in the process of trying to record it. Not so in Cambodia! The light and story and characters, contemporary and ancient, were compelling -- such that my camera and experience and I were one, and I am happy with resultant photographs. The temple carvings are various permutations of Hindu and Buddhist, as one generation reforms the preceding one. One builds the Shiva Lingas (abstract geometric sculptures of male and female genitals mating, with the male Shiva Linga making the statement that the yoni simply receives and contains, ‘his’ is fairly representative, ‘hers’ is a square box); and the next generation knocks these out to replace them with Buddhas. Then the next wave comes and knocks out the Buddha, replacing him with a new Shiva Linga; the dualist and monist versions of reality competing, as everywhere they seem to do. In the walls of the temples are carved Buddhist depictions of the heaven and hell realms, and Hindu depictions of the Mahayana, gods and demons churning up the sea of milk, and then humans and animals fighting in bloody procession. All of these carvings (including one very vivid stegosaurus from the 10th century!) are in various states of intactness and decay. And, over all, a few serene Buddhas, themselves in various levels of cohesion, look upon all of it as so much coming and going, impermanence in procession before the witness of consciousness.
Monkey Mothers
In the same place where the monkey in this portrait (her blind eye is on your right) clawed my face, I saw a young mother monkey plucking in an agitated way at her infant’s umbilical cord. The infant had an abrasion on his forehead (perhaps from recent birth?) and was trying unsuccessfully to nurse. An older monkey mother with her own baby at nipple, lifted the young mother’s infant firmly away from her and cradled the infant along with her own, refusing to let the young mother have the baby back. Eventually, the baby was calm, the young mother was calm, and the older mother gave the baby back to the young mother. The baby cried at being returned to the deficient mother, but the older monkey stayed close by observing the interaction of young mother and infant. So much for ‘maternal instinct;’ this one, at least, had to learn how to mother, and she had someone to teach her.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Blog has a new look?
Yes, this blog is dressed up now, thanks to Elizabeth, who made it more appealing and easier to use by bringing consistent color and format to the kinds of links and by reducing the sheer volume of "bilious green" (the color of seasick people) and replacing it with more subtle color blocks!
A Poem
The Big Picture
By Anne Benvenuti
© March 2008
I see a flash of lightning in the night sky
I see a rainbow as light breaks through the clouds
I see a spark of fire in dry grass
I see a pebble in the farmer’s field
I see a paper boat on an ocean’s swell
I see a bird dive into the sinking sun
By Anne Benvenuti
© March 2008
I see a flash of lightning in the night sky
I see a rainbow as light breaks through the clouds
I see a spark of fire in dry grass
I see a pebble in the farmer’s field
I see a paper boat on an ocean’s swell
I see a bird dive into the sinking sun
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