Endings and Beginnings (To Know this Place for the First Time)

August 10, 2008
Littledoe Lake, Algonquin ParkT

Time present and time past

Are both present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable…
~ T. S. Eliot

I’ve imagined myself here many times before. Sitting on this rock, this small piece of the Canadian Shield; watching this water lap against this shore; raising my eyes to the far shore, a tree line of pine, spruce, birch, maple, cedar; the smells of all of the above wafting by on a gentle breeze; the sun intermittently shining between clouds of white cotton candy. No, it wasn’t this particular rock, for I’ve never seen this rock before. Yet it was this rock, this landscape, with this pen in this hand drawing meaning onto this blank page. I imagined myself here, I suppose, as this place has been the beginning, the end, and the midway point of so many journeys. A constant in a circle. While it has rained at times, this has always been a place of calm, of clarity, openness of mind, of peace—home. As I’ve imagined it, I should be sitting here in a moment of revelation, self-reflection, epiphany. This was to be a moment in which I would dispel of all my uncertainties for the upcoming year, make sense of the frustrations of the past year, finding meaning in chaos, and be ready to move forward, renewed, more assured of where I am going and why, more settled in where I have been. I have been imagining this moment, this image, this landscape and me in it, for this is something that I want, that I need, a moment where I can finally, once again, be still.

I write this way, describing an imagined scene, because when I first sat down here I was doubtful, unhopeful that this sought-for moment would be found. I was ready to describe the scene, and how however hard it was sought, it still remained slightly out of reach. I was going to write, admit, finally, my self-frustration, and in doing so perhaps beginning to move beyond the anxieties, the second-guessing, the feelings of worthlessness, pessimism, ambivalence, and in this round-about way bring myself to the same point that I had been imagining, yet had not yet found.

But as I write like this, describing a hypothetical response to an imagined scene, I write myself back to here. To this rock. To this water. To these horizons, gentle winds, and hesitantly sunny skies. To this place that never fails to remind me that the universe is alive. Living, breathing, singing. Full of joy and wonder, for those who seek her. У земля есть музыка для тех, который ее слышит. I remember, here, now, what it is to be in awe, most of all this time because I did not completely expect that I could still be moved in this way. Perhaps there is no revelation to be found, there is just to be. No epiphany, but to recognize the beauty of the present. No moment to be sought, but now. And I’m here, now. As I’ve been before, both beginning and ending, and where I will be again. Where, on one level or another, I will always be. Here. And Now.

Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
~ T. S. Eliot

Beautiful British Columbia

June 8-16, 2008

After adventures in Beijing Airport's terminal 3 and a trans-Pacific crossing, we arrived to Vancouver safely and were greeted by a dear high school friend. The last week was spent adjusting, relaxing, and soaking in the magnificent place that is British Columbia. After the countless cities, mountains, lakes and rivers we have encountered this year, I say with utmost humility that these Canadian landscapes remain among the most beautiful I have ever seen. And, although I am still thousands of kilometres from the lands of my birth, the smell of pine, cedar, spruce, maple, fresh air and running water is enough to know that I am home. BC has most definately lived up to its slogan: Beautiful British Columbia. Here are some images.

Oddities and Observations in My Home and Native Land

June 10, 2008

People around me are speaking English. Feist is playing in the coffee shop. People buy coffee (real coffee!) in travel mugs and drink it on their way to work. They smile as they walk. They say sorry when you bump into them. I am reading the Globe and Mail. Controversy of Hockey Night in Canada’s theme song is the biggest story of the day. Cars stop to let pedestrians pass—an old man pulling out of his driveway smiles and nods as he waits for me to go by.

Another man, restocking shelves, asks me without prompting if I need help, then tells me the exact placing on the shelf of a specific aisle where I can find peanut butter. I go there and find at least a dozen varieties, at normal prices. Other grocery store luxuries include: soy milk, humus, pita bread, thai sauce, donuts, fresh coffee beans, maple syrup, etc. (all in one place!). I take money out of an ATM with ease, and no conversion fees (though I find myself now converting the other way, multiplying by 23 into roubles or 7 into yuan, or 1150 into Mongolian turigs). Wilfrid Laurier, Queen Elizabeth and a pair of polar bears are back in my wallet. I pay for something that costs $20.69 with $40 and the cashier doesn’t blink, counting out my change with a smile on his face (the grocery store across the street even has an automatic change dispenser).

Black people, brown people, white people, Asian people, different people walk the streets. They all have passports like me, with blue covers and a bilingual message from the Queen. That is, if they carry passports—it is not a requirement here. I am no longer a minority, a representative by default of my native land. Though strangely I still feel like a foreigner. People seem so friendly that I find myself searching for ulterior motives, I am confused and skeptical of their politeness. I wonder if this is how new immigrants feel, overwhelmed by the cleanliness, orderliness, politeness of things. I seem to have developed an irrational case of paranoia (or at least here it seems irrational, where elsewhere it was necessary). I wonder if this is indeed where I am from, the land of my origin. It is new and strange and unpredictable. Though perhaps it is just my body, wandering the streets at 6am, thinking it is 11pm at night. Perhaps when I remember how to sleep at normal hours, I will remember how to live in this country again, to communicate in English, to not labour over counting out exact change. To trust strangers. To eat peanut butter and drink coffee and get riled up about hockey theme songs. To not be surprised when people who aren’t white speak flawless English (or French), because they’ve lived in this country longer than I have. To pay $2.50 for public transit without outrage and cross the street without fearing for my life. To be Canadian, to be at home.

Homeward Bound

June 8, 2008

I am some 33 000 feet above land. Somewhere, probably by now, over eastern Russia. There are few words, metaphors, comparisons that could be used to describe the strange feeling in my gut. It’s not quite excitement or anxiety, sadness or fear, ambivalence or uncertainty, though I think it maybe be a combination of all of the above. If I had to make a statement, however, it would be to say that I’m not sure that I’m ready to return home, wherever and whatever that may be, quite yet. I’m not yet ready to bring to a close the adventures of this past year, the highs and lows that it has entailed, the discoveries and lessons (sometimes hard) that have been found, the landscapes the have been explored, the freedom, relatively speaking, to wander as I please. I am comforted, however, in knowing that, although I can’t quite express this emotion, it is perhaps not so uncommon, as I myself, and I’m sure many a traveler, have known it before.

If you have been following this blog since it’s beginning, you may be familiar with the origins of its title. If not, briefly, it grew out of a series of correspondences with a friend about the idea of wanderlust, and the cyclical nature of the relationship between wonder and wander. One of these correspondences included the reading of one of my friend’s essays, written during her graduate student years. As timing would have it, I read this essay while nearing the end of a month leading canoe trip in Algonquin, just a few weeks before I left Canada. Among other things, in this essay she argues that wonder should be seen as both a cause and effect—the cause of curiosity, wandering, etc., yet also the effect of wandering, and muses: “Can two parts which define each other ever be separated.” The following is a letter to her, and some other wandering things, written after I head read her essay. Although these words were written from a very different place, they express an emotion I’m encountering again (especially the last part), and so I include them here.

* * * * *

Day XV, Hogan Lake

I set out tonight to have a conversation with your thoughts, or at least the thoughts of a former you, so, pen and journal in hand, I took to my canoe and paddled out toward the sun making its evening descent towards the horizon. I paddled out until I could no longer hear anything then began to read. Lost in this world of words and ideas, reading intensely and writing fervently, I sat up only to stretch an aching muscle in my back. With my head no longer in the page, I laughed to myself—at myself—for having lost myself in thoughts. And then I just sat in the silence and the stillness of the lake at sunset, awed by the simple beauty of these wild northern places. Silent save for the lonely cry of the loon. I sat for awhile, trying to think of a way to soak in the stillness of this place, to bottle it up, to be able to take it back with me, to sustain me amidst the concrete of the city—of civilization. And I return to your words, the idea of wonder, the mystery of how to make this wonder the fuel of one’s life…and the incessant challenge of turning this wonder into scholarship. And the even greater challenge of reconciling the “world” of academia with the stillness of this place. I ask myself if it is possible to inhabit both worlds…

For those of you that travel, let this be a warning. The large skies and stark beauty of these northern places can move and challenge you as gently, as insistently, as completely as the warmest and most profound of lovers. It truly becomes possible to have a love affair with the land. As for us, we all had a difficult time returning, and part of each of us probably never will. ~Jesse Ford~

Day XVI, Little Crow Lake

…And while I sat in this question of inhabiting both worlds for long enough, the distinction between the two began to fade until they were no longer separate. Until I could see the faces of every nation reflected in the subtle ripples of the lake at dusk. Until the trees and the sky melted into each other, the same way a city skyline dissolves into the heavens as the setting sun reflects off of skyscraper windows. Until the cry of the loon became the cry of a hurting species, of all those who suffer, and all those who rejoice. Until I could feel that the water that carried me ran to bigger lakes and rivers until it met the sea, where all of the water of this earth goes, and I could feel the collective journey of the water molecules beneath me to this place. And the silence and stillness of this place became not just the state of this lake at this hour but the state of my soul. And I realized that the awe, the astonishment, the wonder with which this place fills me is, as you say, both the cause and the effect of my wanderlust, and this wanderlust leads me not only to the places of rocks, lakes and trees, but to downtown Istanbul, the suburbs of Siberia, the far corners of foreign libraries, the ideas of poets, mystics, essayists, theorists and everything in between. For intrinsic to this wonder is a love of life, of discovering, questioning, connecting, creating, seeing, loving…

…and yet I’m not sure if I’m ready to leave this world, to return to lands of cars and condos and traffic lights and electricity. While I began this trip counting down the days with anticipation, I find myself now counting down with sadness, with a bit of fear and hesitation, for I feel as I’ve only just found a home here, in the rhythm of packing, paddling, portaging, and watching the sun come and go from beyond the horizon. I’m not quite sure how I will be able to return, not yet ready to face the changes this time among wild things has had on me. Not yet ready to face the many tasks of preparing to leave Waterloo, to say goodbye to a certain chapter of my life.

Beijing by Flying Pigeon

May 30-June 1

It’s Sunday night and we’re breezing by the Forbidden City on a pair of Flying Pigeons—a brand of bike iconic of the Cultural Revolution, graciously lent to us by our CouchSurfing host. We’re heading north after an evening of Chinese Acrobatics, winding our way through green tree-lined boulevards, magically lit in the hours between evening and night. We make our way rather effortlessly now, finally accustomed to bike-riding etiquette in Beijing (i.e. follow the crowds, not the traffic lights, swerve to the left around bikers going the wrong way down the street, use your bell liberally). We move to the right to let motorized vehicles pass, glide through intersections, then finally stop to consult our map.

Much of the day has consisted of the same routine: maneuvering between stopping buses and overloaded bicycles (carrying everything from dogs and birds to mattresses and half a grocery store), taking in the scenery (and surprising greenery—though we are told it remains green by diverting water from surrounding villages) of Beijing, stopping to gain our bearings, the continuing in a similar fashion.

Monday. We set out again for the Temple of Heaven. We head south, pray for the thunderclouds to roll past us, and arrive at our destination. After a few hours taking in the sites, we are ready to get back on our bikes. Our next planned destination: the pearl and silk markets. We head north, then east, along the old city wall. We stop to play at a Chinese exercise station and Mark is cajoled into a game of Chinese hackie sack (this “hackie sack” consisting of a group of colourful features weighted with rubber and washers). We cycle past the old city wall, and are carried by the road south, the opposite direction that we want to go in. We wind our way along a highway and a canal to the nearest underpass, head back north, follow a line of cars into what seems like a railway yard, carry our bikes through and underpass, stop to buy some street foot, cross a tiny foot bridge, and end up on “Alien’s Street” surrounded by Cyrillic shop names and wondering if we’ve accidentally returned to Russia (this are of Beijing is, apparently, the one area where, if visibly not Chinese, you’ll first be addressed in Russian, not English). By now too much time has passed and we abandon our market destination. Instead we wander into an unexpected park, balanced and stunning in design. We get lost in rock formations and greenery, then hop back on our bikes to head towards home.

The sun is setting as we head northeast, through the financial district. We wind around a round-about, and our attention is directed to the clanging of cymbals and the beating of drums across the street. There, in front of a gargantuan Bank of China building, a group of middle-aged and older women are dancing with fans. We join the crowd of older Chinese men that has gathered to watch. Strange, we think, that they’ve chosen this location. Perhaps they are all bank employees, Mark muses. We continue along are way, and go no more than a block and a half before we hear the same clanking and beating, and then see the familiar colourful flags dancing by. We slow down and an older man motions to Mark to get of his bike. He hands him a flag and pushes him into the line-up of dancing women. I, along with the other ageing Chinese spectators, are amused to watch this rather rhythm-less white man attempt to imitate his fellow dancers. He makes it once through the circuit and is ready to go, to the winking of Chinese women as he passes.

It is dark now, as yesterday. We approach the Forbidden City from the east this time, though the misty-lit streets begin to fade into one another. We stop and consult our map once again, then wind our way home.

Encouraged by the rain, on Tuesday we take a break from our now beloved Flying Pigeons, and race downtown to pay a visit to the beloved Chairman Mao. We reach Tiananmen Square 15 minutes before the Mausoleum closes, sprint around to the entrance, and are herded through in less than 5 minutes, catching only a quick glimpse of an eerily lit barely-human looking figure enclosed in glass. From the south-west corner of Tiananmen we see a strange looking pavilion with a large “British Colombia Canada” sign hanging above. Curious, we pay the entrance fee (which used to be free for Canadians, but is no longer), head inside and are greeted by 2 Mounties. At their sight, Mark and I start laughing, and they immediately remark that we must be Canadian. We start chatting and discover that they are, in fact, real Mounties, one from Newmarket and the other a graduate of the University of Waterloo. Small world, indeed.

Wednesday. We bike north towards the Olympic Village. The reason, in many ways, that this city is so clean and new looking, lies in this quickly approaching event, and the anticipation is tangible in the air, heavy like smog (which has, at least slightly, temporarily subsided from Beijing’s skies). We see the Bird’s Nest (as Olympic Stadium is known) and the Aqua Cube (the Aquatics Centre) from a distance, though construction is still underway and we can’t actually bike down the main strip. Instead, we circle the outside of the complex, a sprawling complex of hotels, venues, parking lots, parks. We happen upon what we later find out is the “Ethnic Minorities Park”—an amusement park like complex that is supposed to honour China’s minorities. A mosque-looking shopping centre, with mini-skirt clad waitresses, confuses more than anything else.

Thursday. We leave the bikes home once again and set out early to the Great Wall. We somehow manage to get there using a combination of public transit and bartering skills. We hike 12km from Jinshaling to Simatai, a section of the wall that hasn’t been restored. Crumbling stairways and steep climbs tire us out, though the view is breathtaking. Mark falls asleep at 7pm and sleeps until morning.

Saturday. Today we give our Flying Pigeons their biggest test, as we set out to bike to the Summer Palace, 12km outside the city. We get off to a rocky start, as our early route leads us past an exhibition centre where various highways seem to converge, and bike lanes suddenly disappear. We find ourselves in a chaotic mass of pedestrians catching buses and cars set on getting past them, and a few other bikers who’ve also found themselves suddenly without a lane. We make it through, carry our bikes over an overpass, and are happy to be cycling along a relatively quiet canal. We pass the 2^nd, 3^rd and 4^th ring roads, and, after 1h15, we arrive at the Palace. Unfortunately, no bikes are allowed inside, so we continue on foot to explore this massive summer complex of Chinese emperors past. After 3 hours on foot, stunning scenery and incredible views, we are happy to be back on our bikes, heading back into the city. We detour to Jingshan Park, behind the Forbidden City, endure one last uphill climb, and take in one last view of the city.

We return our bikes for the last time, with some sadness, to their lot in the parking garage. Things bikes have been, no doubt, a key shaper of our Beijing experience. They have allowed us into streets and hutongs, unexpected corners of the city, places unreachable by public transit or on foot. They have given us a glimpse of Beijing as seen by many local commuters, as perhaps still the most popular means of transit, allowing us to appreciate the order in the chaos of Beijing traffic. They have been vehicles (both literally and figuratively) into the life of this city, a city of surprises and contradictions, a city that the world is soon to know a little bit better.

Mongolian Lamas Drive SUVs

May 28, 2008

It is a dark blue Nissan Pathfinder, I think, the colour a nice contrast to the deep red and orange of his robes. He is weaving through crowds of people and vendors, one the fringe of Ulaanbaatar’s “Black Market.” “What would Buddha drive,” Mark muses. In a country with almost no paved roads, however, the SUV is not completely ridiculous. And although such lamas were somewhat mythical creatures to me before, in this city they are just about as common as men in suits in Toronto. And, similarly, they drive home in SUVs and change into jeans and t-shirts. The everydayness of this occurrence reminds me of where I am. A country where, although brutally repressed by the communists, Buddhism is a way of life for many, and lamas driving SUVs don’t turn heads.

From Strangers’ Vans to Sand Dunes: Snapshots of Mongolia

May 17-29, 2008

We arrived in Mongolia in a stranger’s van. This was not our plan—when we reached the Russian border town of Naushki, there were not tickets left for the border-crossing leg of our journey. We luckily saw a rusty old bus out the station window, jumped on in faith of the driver who told us he was going “closer” to the border, and were then corralled from his bus into a stranger’s van, standing in line at the border gates. This van was one of many in a caravan crossing the border—carrying foreigners, cigarettes, and other such small-profit goods. After a good 2-3 hour wait, we made it out of Russia (the hard part) and into Mongolia. Here we transferred to another stranger’s car, who drove us to Sukh Baatar, where we got on the same train we’d been on earlier. After a short night’s sleep, we arrived in Ulaanbaatar.

We didn’t plan to come to Mongolia in a stranger’s van, though both the van and the unexpectedness of this border crossing were indicative of what was to come of our time in Mongolia more generally. We came to Mongolia to get to China—in order to get visas, and as the most direct route from Irkutsk to Beijing. After a morning running between ticket booths and consulates, however, we have unexpectedly found ourselves in a stranger’s van once again, on a roadtrip of sorts through the Gobi. Our van mates are also an unexpectedly mixed crew: our Mongolian guide and driver, a 31-year old American teacher from Colorado, a 36-year old tour guide/kickbox/belly-dancing instructor from New Jersey, and a 35-year old German pilot. And it is with this group of people that this unexpected travel turned into a week of wonderful memories, and the van transformed from that of a stranger’s to that of a friend.

In the few hours that remain before we board a train to Beijing, I don’t have time to even scratch the surface of the adventures of the past week. Instead, I offer a potpourri of unexpected Mongolian discoveries, images, and memories, and will let the pictures speak for themselves.

* While “Gobi” simply means “desert” in Mongolian, Mongolians differentiate between 33 types of desert. Indeed, we have never spent more than 3 hours driving before the landscape changes—from green mountains to wind blown rocks, to sand dunes, gravel fields, purple-flower spotted hills, to wide open plains, the Gobi is anything but uniform.

* A ger, the traditional transportable Mongolian dwelling, can be constructed in about an hour, and makes for quite a cozy, homey place to live

* It is possible that modern technology has reached every possible place on earth.

* For a nation that once controlled a significant portion of the planet, Mongolians today number very few—there are only 6 million Mongols worldwide, and only 2.5 million living in Mongolia. Their nomadic lifestyle, however, requires vast, seemingly uninhabited stretches of land in which to roam as herds graze and move from place to place.

* The camel is a truly practical, if quirky, means of transit, especially in a country of almost no paved roads.

* Sand dunes are simply a miracle.

* Vegetarianism is even more of a foregone impossibility in Mongolia than it is in Russia. Horse and camel are among the favourite foods of Mongols, as well as airag (fermented mare’s milk). Contrary to certain vegetarian sentiments, however, Mongols probably respect animals more than any other people I know—from cashmere and camel-hair sweaters and the felt that lines
their gers, to meat, dairy products and transportation, as herders, the livelihood of many Mongols cannot be separated from the lives of their animals

* 5 foreigners + 2 Mongolians + a couple of bottles of Chinggis vodka + a plastic bag + a night on the flour of a canteen-ger = hours of endless entertainment

* From moonrises to sunsets, ice gorges to sand dunes, strangers’ vans and back again, Mongolia is one beautiful place.