Last day. En route to the occasional residence of the royal family, I marveled at Japanese diplomacy. Only non-Japanese tourists are allowed to see the Kyoto Imperial Palace on their date of arrival (with valid passport in hand of course), while natives have to make an in-person reservation weeks in advance, knowing that they will be bumped by foreigners at the last minute.
What was inside? Harmony. The upturned eaves were the shade of lapis lazuli, but the walls were bare white. The undersides of gates and columns were a flagrant orange, balanced by neutral grey. How different from the Chinese cacophony of colors, which is arresting to the eye, but too overwhelming to be comfortable. My mother nodded at me, and I knew she was going to say, "Elegant." Everything about Kyoto had been "elegant," and for my mother, that is the highest praise.
Next came the Ginkakuji, the Silver Pavilion. It might have been the absence of crowds or my more relaxed state of mind, but I found it to be the very essence of serenity. I recall the bamboo shadows, green curvatures of the garden more so than the temple itself, its silver exterior darkening through rain and oxidation. That's also where I met Eddie.
Eddie was a fellow American traveler and a lucky one at that. His work required extensive international trips, which he always managed to parlay into personal explorations of the world. He came to Kyoto while on business in Osaka.
We bonded immediately, over Uncle Sam and mutual cases of wanderlust. We experienced the Philosopher's walk together, a willow-lined path that wound through small village temples and ancestral shrines.
Our conversation lasted long into the night, over a savory meal of fish and sake, over a moonlit stroll through the eerily lit Yakasa Shrine with its wavering lanterns. We discussed metaphysics, disappointments, and an insatiable hunger for adventure that neither of us could quench. I began to see a reflection of myself in him, albeit an unlikely one since he was a well-built, Hispanic man of 6'2" and I was a diminutive Asian girl of 5'3".
I had not conversed that freely in a long time. Kindred spirits understand something so intrinsic within you that it surpasses the confines of your present condition. I thought about everything that had defined me before, everything that I had lost: career, relationship, and health. If I had defined myself by those things, am I now nothing?
Somewhere between the palaces, pavilions, and shrines, I met myself again. At some point into the journey in another country, a miraculous thing happens to us. We find ourselves detached from the social and cultural norms of the place we left, and yet not aware enough to assimilate into the place we are visiting. For the moment, we are liberated from our past traditions and not yet bound to expectations of a new tradition. In that brief space, we are free, more truly ourselves, rejuvenated by the internal fire that burns inside of us. And we remember the infinite possibilities of the self.
Right now, I had nothing but the infinite possibilities of the self.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Art of Being
One of the pitfalls of traveling is the inevitable feeling of not enough. No matter how long the visit, how familiar the territory, how organized and efficient the itinerary, there is the lingering thought that something wonderful has slipped beyond our grasp. So we plan, we rush, we don't sleep, and we run ourselves ragged in a foreign city or rainforest, thinking that it's fun. And it is.
But there are places where time can pause, even for a mere moment, where your senses are startled by sheer beauty, and the vibrating pulse that is life seems ever more complete. For me, the Kyomizu Temple was such a place. Perched high on a mountain, it overlooked the ravishing vista of Kyoto from a network of beautifully crafted pavilions. Unchallenged was the main monastery protruding from the edge of the cliff. Here was a place to listen to the rustling of leaves, the budding of cherry blossoms, the rhythm of raindrops.
Here was a place to be.
Buddhist monks spend generations learning to meditate, to clear the mind of noise. In the absence of the rampant, wild monkey mind that gives rise to desires and greed, enlightenment is found. In the silence, we can find peace.
Yet even as I climbed this spiritual place, tourists are rushing, pushing, and dashing off to see another Unesco world heritage site before sunset. Some halted for a split second or two to take in the exquisite view, before the pressures of "seeing everything" overwhelmed them to take out a map or checklist. Admittedly, I was just like that yesterday. Or a minute ago.
An uncle from California had taught me to meditate once, but I abandoned it because who had time to sit around and do nothing?
As the sky turned gold and magenta, I allowed myself to stop. To stop going. To stop doing. To stop being busy. I understood that activity is a distraction, blinding me from the tumultuous storm inside. All this time, I'd been running from myself.
I heard myself breathing.
I saw the white flutterings of paper offerings, prayers to the beloved deceased, cover the temple like snow whenever the wind whistled.
I saw the sky transform; bold, definitive colors that marked the ending of the present day. I understood that while some things must end, my life will renew itself. Effortlessly, like the rising of the sun tomorrow.
The ancient Aztecs believed that night is synonymous with death, and that something must consciously be done to make the sun rise everyday. Their answer was blood and human sacrifice. While our twenty-first century perspective deems them foolish, we are just as foolish in our own world. Always trying to make things happen, to force things to happen, even things beyond our control. Such is the genesis of the quintessential control-freak, and there are many loose and active among us. (Myself included).
Let the night come. Let a certain part of yourself die. That is where healing begins.
I have never forgotten that sunset.
But there are places where time can pause, even for a mere moment, where your senses are startled by sheer beauty, and the vibrating pulse that is life seems ever more complete. For me, the Kyomizu Temple was such a place. Perched high on a mountain, it overlooked the ravishing vista of Kyoto from a network of beautifully crafted pavilions. Unchallenged was the main monastery protruding from the edge of the cliff. Here was a place to listen to the rustling of leaves, the budding of cherry blossoms, the rhythm of raindrops.
Here was a place to be.
Buddhist monks spend generations learning to meditate, to clear the mind of noise. In the absence of the rampant, wild monkey mind that gives rise to desires and greed, enlightenment is found. In the silence, we can find peace.
Yet even as I climbed this spiritual place, tourists are rushing, pushing, and dashing off to see another Unesco world heritage site before sunset. Some halted for a split second or two to take in the exquisite view, before the pressures of "seeing everything" overwhelmed them to take out a map or checklist. Admittedly, I was just like that yesterday. Or a minute ago.
An uncle from California had taught me to meditate once, but I abandoned it because who had time to sit around and do nothing?
As the sky turned gold and magenta, I allowed myself to stop. To stop going. To stop doing. To stop being busy. I understood that activity is a distraction, blinding me from the tumultuous storm inside. All this time, I'd been running from myself.
I heard myself breathing.
I saw the white flutterings of paper offerings, prayers to the beloved deceased, cover the temple like snow whenever the wind whistled.
I saw the sky transform; bold, definitive colors that marked the ending of the present day. I understood that while some things must end, my life will renew itself. Effortlessly, like the rising of the sun tomorrow.
The ancient Aztecs believed that night is synonymous with death, and that something must consciously be done to make the sun rise everyday. Their answer was blood and human sacrifice. While our twenty-first century perspective deems them foolish, we are just as foolish in our own world. Always trying to make things happen, to force things to happen, even things beyond our control. Such is the genesis of the quintessential control-freak, and there are many loose and active among us. (Myself included).
Let the night come. Let a certain part of yourself die. That is where healing begins.
I have never forgotten that sunset.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Nijo and Naoko
Another tenet of Japanese culture is their appreciation for balance. They breathe ying and yang; their minimalism celebrates both negative space and matter, and even their speech is punctuated with meanings left unsaid. Naoko told me that people in Japan are not explicit; one could only guess at their intentions.
As I walked through the Nijo Castle, home of the Tokugawa Shogun, I thought about the samurai. Theirs was a hieroglyphic world, one to be observed and admired, but difficult to exist within. The castle reflected this duality: raw, unpainted wood embellished with hinges of gold. The language of power could be deduced only through the simplest of gestures. Brute force resided beneath those entrances of carved jade and ivory and turquoise. Paintings conveyed prowling tigers amid delicate landscapes. The samurai would be barefoot in these halls, bearing swords.
The Japanese are also firm believers in the artistry of the land. Gardens were resplendent, meticulously trimmed bushes and trees sculpted into airy guardians of an almost sacred pond. Even the rocks were painstakingly placed by hand.
That was the thing about Kyoto; so much thought was imbued into the creation of all things that it seemed that everything had a soul. Yet, it was hidden. This city was so elusive that its beauty could be exalted without ever being understood.
Naoko was the exception. She was in charge of guest relations at the Tokyu, a lovely boutique hotel where my mother threw a hissy fit at the sight of a smoking room. Naoko liked my mother's sweet nature despite her storms, and she had a luminous warmth, quite unlike anyone I had encountered in Japan.
We were impressed with her perfect, colloquial English (few among the hotel staff could communicate with us) and she intimated that she lived in Paris for five years while working as a flight attendant for Air France. Family and her son brought her back to Kyoto, to the place of her birth and her ancestors. Yet, she had a longing to keep going, searching, and experiencing. "I am the kind of person who will never be satisfied, no matter what I do or don't do."
Naoko became very real to me, one who dared to break the calm surface of the Japanese status quo, and to question the way things are. And the risk of questioning is discovering inadequacy, of knowing that you have to change.
Here I am questioning, throwing my life off the beaten and very well-accepted path, unsure of how or what to change. I thought that change was an act of will, but I learned that you can't force the heart to move until it is ready. When it does move, however, you do more than change. You grow.
As I walked through the Nijo Castle, home of the Tokugawa Shogun, I thought about the samurai. Theirs was a hieroglyphic world, one to be observed and admired, but difficult to exist within. The castle reflected this duality: raw, unpainted wood embellished with hinges of gold. The language of power could be deduced only through the simplest of gestures. Brute force resided beneath those entrances of carved jade and ivory and turquoise. Paintings conveyed prowling tigers amid delicate landscapes. The samurai would be barefoot in these halls, bearing swords.
The Japanese are also firm believers in the artistry of the land. Gardens were resplendent, meticulously trimmed bushes and trees sculpted into airy guardians of an almost sacred pond. Even the rocks were painstakingly placed by hand.
That was the thing about Kyoto; so much thought was imbued into the creation of all things that it seemed that everything had a soul. Yet, it was hidden. This city was so elusive that its beauty could be exalted without ever being understood.
Naoko was the exception. She was in charge of guest relations at the Tokyu, a lovely boutique hotel where my mother threw a hissy fit at the sight of a smoking room. Naoko liked my mother's sweet nature despite her storms, and she had a luminous warmth, quite unlike anyone I had encountered in Japan.
We were impressed with her perfect, colloquial English (few among the hotel staff could communicate with us) and she intimated that she lived in Paris for five years while working as a flight attendant for Air France. Family and her son brought her back to Kyoto, to the place of her birth and her ancestors. Yet, she had a longing to keep going, searching, and experiencing. "I am the kind of person who will never be satisfied, no matter what I do or don't do."
Naoko became very real to me, one who dared to break the calm surface of the Japanese status quo, and to question the way things are. And the risk of questioning is discovering inadequacy, of knowing that you have to change.
Here I am questioning, throwing my life off the beaten and very well-accepted path, unsure of how or what to change. I thought that change was an act of will, but I learned that you can't force the heart to move until it is ready. When it does move, however, you do more than change. You grow.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
A Geisha in Gion
The Japanese are a fiercely proud people. So proud and nationalistic, in fact, that they are intensely afraid of contamination. In the wake of swine flu, almost everyone sported white surgeon's masks outdoors and airports screened the body temperature of every passenger. Even when I tapped a bus driver for directions, he shrank three feet away from me and brushed off my touch like I was a mosquito.
"Guess he thought you were Chinese," my mother laughed. Ah, the age-old animosity between Japan and China. Indeed, the Japanese obsession with cleanliness, evidenced by hand sanitizers, soaps, and disinfectants everywhere, clashed with the overcrowded, pungent, and rather filthy streets of cities like Beijing. Despite population and industrialization, how clean a city is, is a matter of culture.
Of course, I had forgotten to study the language before our departure. The young, educated Japanese conveniently ignored my requests for directions, pretending they did not understand even though they laughed when I told my mother a joke (in English). Perhaps it was the embarrassment of speaking in an Anglican tongue, or maybe it was a sign of disrespect towards their heritage. Nonetheless, Mother to the rescue. She was surprisingly fluent, navigating us around town in local buses, and elbowing me because I kept saying "Comsomida." Later, I realized I had gone around Kyoto saying "thank you" in Korean.
Everything in Japan was small, exquisite, and especially potent. Think sake, or tiny rice cakes crusted with powdered sugar, concealing a delectable center of honeydew or red bean or strawberry. Outside the renowned Golden Pavilion Kinka-kuji, there was a small collection of confections and we feasted on sugary sweets flavored with green tea or ginger. The teas were extraordinary: one whiff and they awakened the senses.
We also encountered geisha along the wooden walkways of Gion. They have become a rare breed, ever more cherished because of their scarcity. More elusive than shadows, one could only glimpse at them heading off to the theatre or to entertain a private party, that flash of white paint and sumptuous kimono disappearing around the next corner. They shun the attentions of the public, and the ever curious tourist.
I remember one particular geisha who brushed past us closely in a narrow street. The sky was dark, as it was evening and red lanterns were lit outside the taverns. When she saw us, her hand flew up protectively, as if to ward off evil spirits. But it was her expression that haunted me, distracted and somehow melancholy.
I thought about her story, how she began and if she has the freedom to leave. Forget fairytales and Arthur Golden-white-Jewish-man-writing-a-Japanese-woman's-memoir. Elders believed that beauty was a woman's bane; it brought greater misfortune than luck. I wondered if she had not been beautiful, how her story would have been written. Would she be happier, freer, valued for what lies beyond her flawless skin?
With beauty, it becomes ever so much harder to hold onto the spirit. You become intoxicated by the world.
"Guess he thought you were Chinese," my mother laughed. Ah, the age-old animosity between Japan and China. Indeed, the Japanese obsession with cleanliness, evidenced by hand sanitizers, soaps, and disinfectants everywhere, clashed with the overcrowded, pungent, and rather filthy streets of cities like Beijing. Despite population and industrialization, how clean a city is, is a matter of culture.
Of course, I had forgotten to study the language before our departure. The young, educated Japanese conveniently ignored my requests for directions, pretending they did not understand even though they laughed when I told my mother a joke (in English). Perhaps it was the embarrassment of speaking in an Anglican tongue, or maybe it was a sign of disrespect towards their heritage. Nonetheless, Mother to the rescue. She was surprisingly fluent, navigating us around town in local buses, and elbowing me because I kept saying "Comsomida." Later, I realized I had gone around Kyoto saying "thank you" in Korean.
Everything in Japan was small, exquisite, and especially potent. Think sake, or tiny rice cakes crusted with powdered sugar, concealing a delectable center of honeydew or red bean or strawberry. Outside the renowned Golden Pavilion Kinka-kuji, there was a small collection of confections and we feasted on sugary sweets flavored with green tea or ginger. The teas were extraordinary: one whiff and they awakened the senses.
We also encountered geisha along the wooden walkways of Gion. They have become a rare breed, ever more cherished because of their scarcity. More elusive than shadows, one could only glimpse at them heading off to the theatre or to entertain a private party, that flash of white paint and sumptuous kimono disappearing around the next corner. They shun the attentions of the public, and the ever curious tourist.
I remember one particular geisha who brushed past us closely in a narrow street. The sky was dark, as it was evening and red lanterns were lit outside the taverns. When she saw us, her hand flew up protectively, as if to ward off evil spirits. But it was her expression that haunted me, distracted and somehow melancholy.
I thought about her story, how she began and if she has the freedom to leave. Forget fairytales and Arthur Golden-white-Jewish-man-writing-a-Japanese-woman's-memoir. Elders believed that beauty was a woman's bane; it brought greater misfortune than luck. I wondered if she had not been beautiful, how her story would have been written. Would she be happier, freer, valued for what lies beyond her flawless skin?
With beauty, it becomes ever so much harder to hold onto the spirit. You become intoxicated by the world.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Take Me to Kyoto
Here was our itinerary flying back from Singapore to New York City.
Three hour flight to Seoul, five hour layover; two hour flight to Tokyo, six hour layover; fifteen hour flight to Newark. Sigh...Such was the limitation of frequent flier miles and basically, our return trip would last over 30 hours. Did I mention I am an incomparable planner?
My mother took one glance at our itinerary and told me I was crazy. She adamantly refused to spend two whole days in transit/airports and demanded that we "break" the traveling by spending the weekend in Japan. Not Tokyo, she was very specific about this, but Kyoto.
An ambassador's daughter, my mother had spent ample time studying at Sophia University in her youth. In fact, my earliest stories from Japan were her depictions of fat, drunken Japanese men haunting the Tokyo metro late at night, grabbing young girls in their supposed stupor, and flashing them. It was quite traumatic for my aunts. When they got to my mother, she unleashed her secret weapon: the sharpened end of a safety pin. Regardless of where she pierced, they never bothered her again.
So the technological fascinations of Tokyo held very little appeal for her (although it did for me). The decision was made: to extend our "stop-over" to the historical and cultural heart of Japan, Kyoto.
First step was buying tourist bullet train passes from abroad, as they were extravagantly expensive in the country. Nevertheless, they nearly broke my budget at $400 per person for 3 days ($800 total and the tourism bureau assured me it was a bargain).
Then storage of our over-sized, month-long suitcases at Narita Airport. Remember, these were still bulging with multi-weather attire and boxes of Ritz Crackers, Fig Newtons, and Oreo cookies that we transported from the States, "just in case" my mother's stomach could not tolerate foreign food. Well, my mother tolerated the spice of kimchi, latong kalasa of Singapore, and dumplings from Malaysia just fine. We wound up dragging everything back, and I was down over $100 for 3 days storage!
Of course, we had to locate a suitable hotel, since my mother would not brave youth hostels. We found a bargain on Agoda.com, $400 for three nights, but it was limited to smoking rooms only.
So our spontaneous, adventurous foray into the legendary lands of geisha and samurai had not yet begun, and I was worrying about my wallet. We were on the last leg of our journey to the Far East, not many places accepted credit cards, and no, dummy that I was, I did not use an ATM card. I didn't even have a passcode.
Did I mention I was running out of cash?
(To be continued...)
Sunday, December 26, 2010
What's Left for Me in Vietnam?
People inevitably ask me if I have been to Vietnam, assuming that a) I actually have the intention to visit the country of my ethnic roots and b) it is only a matter of time before I get there, being an avid traveler of the world.
Words of wisdom: never assume. I was born in America, during a tumultuous snowstorm in the very heart of the Big Apple. The city that never sleeps, with its brusque honesty, flurries of diversion and distraction, art and money, dizzily fast-changing attitudes, is more my homeland than Vietnam will ever be.
I confess that I have never felt completely comfortable in the States, that there is some flavor or spice in me that is different. Perhaps all immigrants feel this way. I do gravitate towards Asians, even though I was raised in a Caucasian neighborhood. There is an altar dedicated to my ancestors, embellished with photographs of my grandparents and reeking of incense. Yes, I have the dull ache, the yearning to belong to a people who look like me and to immerse in a language that is uniquely our own, the sounds my tongue was shaped to pronounce.
But Vietnam is not the way. Simply put, I reject Vietnam because Vietnam has already rejected me. After 1975, the citizenship of all those who emigrated abroad was effectively nullified. Property was confiscated by cadres of the Communist Party. Tombs were overthrown and remains scattered to the four winds. Those who dissented were imprisoned and re-educated. According to Doan Van Toai's memoir, the Vietnamese Gulag, political prisons that housed 300 under the South Vietnamese Thieu administration held over 3,000 after 1975.
Over time, emigrants were valued because they provided a consistent source of income, as the local, state, and national levels of the Vietnamese government took generous cuts of money before it went to feeding the impoverished families left behind.
Circa 2010, the Socialist Republic of Vietnam has officially re-categorized us. There are native Vietnamese, there are foreigners, and then there is us: Viet Kieu (Vietnamese From Abroad). We are the new minority: successful, worldly, educated, and "different." It is as if we are no longer ethnically Vietnamese, and the government has somehow bastardized us, particularly those who were born on that soil and now no longer have any claim to be there.
Despite our understanding of the language and tradition, we Viet Kieu are grouped with foreigners and expected to pay over-priced rates (triple the accepted amount), even though we are aware of being ripped off. The Vietnamese natives appeal to our sense of commonality only to ingratiate themselves to our wallets, or even better, to find a ticket out of there. Marriage is typically the path of survival for many young girls blessed with beauty, sexual prowess, and a whole lot of ambition. And no, they don't mind if the man is already married.
This brings me to culture. The Socialist Republic of Vietnam and the Republic of South Vietnam is not the same nation, despite the immutable physical land many of the estranged Viet Kieu still call home. Politics define freedom (or lack of it), freedom provides a framework to make choices, and choices are the living fiber of our lives. The culture of a democratic state versus a communist state don't even fit on the same page. (Think West v. East Germany. Or the Ukraine, Lithuania, and Latvia v. USSR.)
So I wonder if the culture of my mother's country (which no longer exists) is embodied in the earth of Indochina, or if it is embodied within my mother herself, her values, her teachings, and her spirit. Our culture dwells within us, within the stories that continue to be told.
Many raise the development of Vietnam to quell my views on the regime. It is a booming economy, they say, and it is getting better. I would agree that constant construction of hotels, and an influx of industry are definite pluses for the country. Money is definitely pouring in. Yet, it is getting better for whom?
Developing countries disseminate resources into education, building roads and infrastructure, and improving agriculture. In Vietnam, the transportation system is comparable to what was prior to the war, agriculture still relies primarily on human labor and beasts of burden like oxen or buffalo, and public schools are in shambles. Compare Saigon (oops, I mean Ho Chi Minh City) to Beijing, where the 3 ring highway system became an 8 ring highway system in 10 years, or the multitudes of foreign students who travel to Chinese universities. Who travels abroad to Vietnamese universities to study? So who is benefitting from the newly acquired wealth of Vietnam? Certainly not the people.
It pains me when travelers intimate the beauty of Vietnam, the diamond sand beaches of the south, the melancholy shrines of Hue, and tiny romantic islands of the north. I long to breathe in the air of the earth that once, long ago, was my motherland.
But I won't. Non-Vietnamese friends don't understand the sensation of being cast off by a nation, a government that severed the bonds of commonality, and now only wants you back because of the benefits you can offer: resources. Vietnam is now inviting all Viet Kieu back because the intelligentsia fled long ago.
I won't go.
You see, Vietnamese Communists are like sweet-talking men, promising something they never intend to deliver.
I would rather stay home.
Words of wisdom: never assume. I was born in America, during a tumultuous snowstorm in the very heart of the Big Apple. The city that never sleeps, with its brusque honesty, flurries of diversion and distraction, art and money, dizzily fast-changing attitudes, is more my homeland than Vietnam will ever be.
I confess that I have never felt completely comfortable in the States, that there is some flavor or spice in me that is different. Perhaps all immigrants feel this way. I do gravitate towards Asians, even though I was raised in a Caucasian neighborhood. There is an altar dedicated to my ancestors, embellished with photographs of my grandparents and reeking of incense. Yes, I have the dull ache, the yearning to belong to a people who look like me and to immerse in a language that is uniquely our own, the sounds my tongue was shaped to pronounce.
But Vietnam is not the way. Simply put, I reject Vietnam because Vietnam has already rejected me. After 1975, the citizenship of all those who emigrated abroad was effectively nullified. Property was confiscated by cadres of the Communist Party. Tombs were overthrown and remains scattered to the four winds. Those who dissented were imprisoned and re-educated. According to Doan Van Toai's memoir, the Vietnamese Gulag, political prisons that housed 300 under the South Vietnamese Thieu administration held over 3,000 after 1975.
Over time, emigrants were valued because they provided a consistent source of income, as the local, state, and national levels of the Vietnamese government took generous cuts of money before it went to feeding the impoverished families left behind.
Circa 2010, the Socialist Republic of Vietnam has officially re-categorized us. There are native Vietnamese, there are foreigners, and then there is us: Viet Kieu (Vietnamese From Abroad). We are the new minority: successful, worldly, educated, and "different." It is as if we are no longer ethnically Vietnamese, and the government has somehow bastardized us, particularly those who were born on that soil and now no longer have any claim to be there.
Despite our understanding of the language and tradition, we Viet Kieu are grouped with foreigners and expected to pay over-priced rates (triple the accepted amount), even though we are aware of being ripped off. The Vietnamese natives appeal to our sense of commonality only to ingratiate themselves to our wallets, or even better, to find a ticket out of there. Marriage is typically the path of survival for many young girls blessed with beauty, sexual prowess, and a whole lot of ambition. And no, they don't mind if the man is already married.
This brings me to culture. The Socialist Republic of Vietnam and the Republic of South Vietnam is not the same nation, despite the immutable physical land many of the estranged Viet Kieu still call home. Politics define freedom (or lack of it), freedom provides a framework to make choices, and choices are the living fiber of our lives. The culture of a democratic state versus a communist state don't even fit on the same page. (Think West v. East Germany. Or the Ukraine, Lithuania, and Latvia v. USSR.)
So I wonder if the culture of my mother's country (which no longer exists) is embodied in the earth of Indochina, or if it is embodied within my mother herself, her values, her teachings, and her spirit. Our culture dwells within us, within the stories that continue to be told.
Many raise the development of Vietnam to quell my views on the regime. It is a booming economy, they say, and it is getting better. I would agree that constant construction of hotels, and an influx of industry are definite pluses for the country. Money is definitely pouring in. Yet, it is getting better for whom?
Developing countries disseminate resources into education, building roads and infrastructure, and improving agriculture. In Vietnam, the transportation system is comparable to what was prior to the war, agriculture still relies primarily on human labor and beasts of burden like oxen or buffalo, and public schools are in shambles. Compare Saigon (oops, I mean Ho Chi Minh City) to Beijing, where the 3 ring highway system became an 8 ring highway system in 10 years, or the multitudes of foreign students who travel to Chinese universities. Who travels abroad to Vietnamese universities to study? So who is benefitting from the newly acquired wealth of Vietnam? Certainly not the people.
It pains me when travelers intimate the beauty of Vietnam, the diamond sand beaches of the south, the melancholy shrines of Hue, and tiny romantic islands of the north. I long to breathe in the air of the earth that once, long ago, was my motherland.
But I won't. Non-Vietnamese friends don't understand the sensation of being cast off by a nation, a government that severed the bonds of commonality, and now only wants you back because of the benefits you can offer: resources. Vietnam is now inviting all Viet Kieu back because the intelligentsia fled long ago.
I won't go.
You see, Vietnamese Communists are like sweet-talking men, promising something they never intend to deliver.
I would rather stay home.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Danger in Kuala Lumpur
I remember Kuala Lumpur as a dangerous city, non-discriminating to native or tourist alike. The Department of Tourism reported casualties that resulted from purse snatching: the victim would be walking with a handbag or backpack slung loosely over the shoulder, and a thief on a motorcycle would grab it coming from the opposite direction. Not only were valuables lost, but the victim crashed backward into the cement, suffering from cranial damage and sometimes even death. Blood was spilled for petty gain there.
I trembled every time I stepped outside of my hotel, an upscale architectural wonder with a fantastic view of the Petrona Towers, courtesy of Marriott points from my corporate days.
Yet Kuala Lumpur was one of the most intriguing places I have ever visited, harboring an amalgam of the colorful heritages of Malay, China, and India. Sandstone and creme-colored mosques heralded the Malay's Muslim roots. Varied tribes and the richness of their costumes were showcased in festive dances that enthralled the eye. Chinese cuisines sizzled with the poignancy of taste available only in Hong Kong or Shanghai. Indian woven fabrics and handicrafts populated the open markets, and some women graced the streets in saris.
Although Singapore boasts a melting pot of the same cultures, Malaysia offered a startling sense of authenticity. KL was unabashed and uncensored compared to its very hygenic and commercialized neighbor. Here the curry was spicier, soy sauce was tangier, and racial tensions were more pronounced. The Chinese-Malaysians were clearly the nation's economic backbone, driving business and commerce. Indian-Malaysians constituted the mercantile class, small shopkeepers. For the most part, indigenous Malaysians have been relegated to more labor-intensive work.
Resentment of the races was so thick you can cut through with a knife.
And it was the most attractive culture I have ever experienced.
What is it about danger that we find so irresistible? I was drawn to streets here more than anywhere else, like a moth drawn to a flame. Here I had a greater chance of being knifed by a stranger than anywhere I've been. Yet, I was intrigued.
Perhaps it is only at the risk of destruction that we discover courage. Perhaps it is the challenge of finding what we are made of, testing the "mettle" of our souls. Perhaps that realization is worth perishing for.
Perhaps it is just plain stupidity.
Perhaps it doesn't matter.
I trembled every time I stepped outside of my hotel, an upscale architectural wonder with a fantastic view of the Petrona Towers, courtesy of Marriott points from my corporate days.
Yet Kuala Lumpur was one of the most intriguing places I have ever visited, harboring an amalgam of the colorful heritages of Malay, China, and India. Sandstone and creme-colored mosques heralded the Malay's Muslim roots. Varied tribes and the richness of their costumes were showcased in festive dances that enthralled the eye. Chinese cuisines sizzled with the poignancy of taste available only in Hong Kong or Shanghai. Indian woven fabrics and handicrafts populated the open markets, and some women graced the streets in saris.
Although Singapore boasts a melting pot of the same cultures, Malaysia offered a startling sense of authenticity. KL was unabashed and uncensored compared to its very hygenic and commercialized neighbor. Here the curry was spicier, soy sauce was tangier, and racial tensions were more pronounced. The Chinese-Malaysians were clearly the nation's economic backbone, driving business and commerce. Indian-Malaysians constituted the mercantile class, small shopkeepers. For the most part, indigenous Malaysians have been relegated to more labor-intensive work.
Resentment of the races was so thick you can cut through with a knife.
And it was the most attractive culture I have ever experienced.
What is it about danger that we find so irresistible? I was drawn to streets here more than anywhere else, like a moth drawn to a flame. Here I had a greater chance of being knifed by a stranger than anywhere I've been. Yet, I was intrigued.
Perhaps it is only at the risk of destruction that we discover courage. Perhaps it is the challenge of finding what we are made of, testing the "mettle" of our souls. Perhaps that realization is worth perishing for.
Perhaps it is just plain stupidity.
Perhaps it doesn't matter.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)