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.