Chengdu in Photos

Although it's the fifth largest city in China with a population around 11 million, Chengdu probably isn't that well-known to the average foreigner. If you've heard of it, it's probably because of the large panda breeding and research center at the outskirts of town. My hosts, who have been here now for almost two months, are still getting to know the area, so last weekend we set out to explore some areas that were new to all of us.

1. Wenshu Temple, a sprawling Buddhist complex including a monastery and beautiful gardens.

2. Jinli Street, one of several recreated "ancient" pedestrian areas. It's kitschy, with a decidedly Epcot Center-like vibe, but fun for people-watching and sampling street food.

3. The so-called Wide and Narrow Alley, a network of pedestrian streets similar to above. But instead of cheap souvenirs, the businesses here are more of the handicraft shop, restaurant and bar variety.

4 & 5. People's Park. Whereas in other countries a park is somewhere one might go to find peace and solace, or perhaps a bench to sleep on if homeless, here parks are intended for large social gatherings and activities. From dancing to tai chi to karaoke, passing through an urban Chinese park on a weekend epitomizes the colloquial phrase for having a good time, which roughly translates to "hot and noisy" in English. Chinese people also have no qualms about setting up amplifiers and subwoofers within proximity of other groups' amps and subwoofers. Hot and noisy indeed.

Photos will be posted to Flickr asap; the website seems to be blocked by the Great Firewall. 

The China Report

I kept out China out of my 2013 RTW itinerary, citing the reason that it was too far north of the intended trajectory toward Oceania via Southeast Asia, but to be honest the thought of visiting made me anxious. Because even though I am half Chinese*, I have always felt more in touch with my Japanese heritage; I don't know any Mandarin or Cantonese; and vast China, with it's stringent visa policies, elicited a nebulous fear of the unknown rather than my innate sense of adventure.

Childhood friends who had grown up visiting China to see relatives always acted like it was a huge drag on otherwise would-be fun summer vacations. When I asked why, the answer was always the same. "It's dirty," they'd say, wrinkling their noses as if the stench had followed them back across the Pacific Ocean. 

I suppose, also, that I had it in my head that China would feel similar to India - dirty, yes, but also chaotic in the way of an overpopulated area furiously trying to modernize to the detriment of the millions still scraping the bottom of the ever widening wealth gap. (As opposed to "chaotic" like trying to have dinner at a Bay Area restaurant on a Friday night sans reservation and after the James Beard award winners have been announced). India was equal parts fascinating and exhausting; I'm glad I went but it's not somewhere that I would have gone solo if I'd known what it would be like prior to the fact.

So, yes, China was intimidating. Waiting around to board my flight in Tokyo's Haneda airport, I tried to clear my mind of all the negative things that friends and family had experienced - the poor air quality, the spitting, the squat toilets, the babies pooping and peeing in public through splits in the seat of their pants designed for that exact purpose, and the general pushiness  inherent to Chinese people. (If you stood in line like a normal person you'd never move forward).  

But when I actually got to Chengdu and started hitting the streets, I was pleasantly surprised. Contrary to previous experiences in urban centers of the developing world, there were wide sidewalks for pedestrians, a semblance of orderly traffic (although cops generally don't have the balls stop cars out of fear that a party leader may be at the wheel), sleek modern skyscrapers, and a noticeable absense of slums**, herds of cattle or pigs and stinking piles of animal (possibly human) excrement.  

What does it mean to be "developed," though? Oftentimes, cities seem to conflate development with saturating the local economy with outposts of western companies, but as an American visitor, I have to say that it makes me cringe to see Starbucks, McDonalds and KFCs with long lines of customers. I get that it helps project a certain socioeconomic status (what screams money and urbanization more than a large overpriced latte?), but I'm more in agreement with what my host said about the importance of infrastructure over dinner one evening.

"If you can drink the tap water and people are more or less civilized on the road - that's development." 

*Chinese-American, but ethnic identity will be explored in a future post.

 **I have no doubt that there are slums here, but there aren't, like, tents and shanties pitched right outside affuent gated communities as is common in Delhi.

Irago in Photos: Part 2

Just beyond the Irago ferry port is a concrete wall that projects out from the mainland, bending once at an angle that creates a mostly-enclosed area for the ferries and fishing boats. If the signs don't outright say 'Do not enter,' I'm fairly confident that they at least say 'Caution.' For although the wall is just wide enough not to be scary on a nice day, a high wind could be deadly for even those with good balance. Regardless, it appears to be a popular fishing spot.

Fishing, along with golf and bird-watching, have never interested me much because I lack the patience that they require. My father once took my brother and I out fishing, but what I remember most is my brother, in a characteristic bout of enthusiasm, showing me how to cast the line out. He swung the rod back over his shoulder and then forward onto the water, eyes widening and mouth forming an o as it slipped out of his hands at the last second, continuing its outward trajectory before finally sinking below the surface. There may have been some tears as a result, but after some tense, quiet minutes, my father succeeded in fishing it back out using his own pole. Between the three of us, I don't think any fish were caught that day, but I know that my brother was pleased to have the fishing pole back.

The Retreat

In a few days I'll be leaving the cabbage fields, virgin forests and shrines of the Irago peninsula, where the nearest convience store is a thirty minute bike ride away and the few local restaurants change their schedules on a whim. It gets dark early and there are no street lamps. Many people would probably find it too quiet, but it's felt like the perfect stop between urban jaunts. To me, the past few weeks represent The Calm Before I Go to China. 

When was the last time I watched the sun set and saw the stars at night? When have I ever not had to worry about locking up my things? (An aside: there is even less security here than in the cheapest hostels I've stayed in during my travels. I was worried when I first arrived, until I noticed that V kept his DSLR and laptop in plain sight from the door, which all but faces the main road).  

I've embraced the bland-smelling eco soap that we use for everything, the minimal electricity use and limited wi-fi access, and relished not shaving my legs or wearing makeup. Instead of checking my email and social media accounts before lights out, my new ritual is a mug of herbal tea and a good novel. Although I miss certain foods like brie and tacos, obasan's home cooking has led me to embrace the simple deliciousness of miso soup and a bowl of freshly made rice. I feel better, calmer, more productive.

Of the questions people ask me about travel, the most common are whether it gets lonely on the road or if it's hard to acclimate to a different culture. And my answer is that no matter how many thousands of miles you are away from your geographic comfort zone, it's just as easy to slip into a new one somewhere else. Getting there is usually the hard part.

Irago in Photos, Part 1

Taken on separate occasions. The first, a sunny afternoon when I biked (taking the hilly way rather than the flat way) around the cape to a rocky beach that I'd spotted from the observation deck of the Irako View Hotel. I have an innate predilection for climbing things (sculptures, fire escapes, roofs) that sometimes gets me into trouble. It was fun until I very nearly tumbled into a deep ravine after what I'd thought was the perfect handhold broke away from the main rock. For a split second my hands grasped at the air, and then my knee came down - hard - onto the ledge I'd been perched on when I took the second photo below.

On a different day, I took the bike in the opposite direction and followed the coastal road that runs along the bay side of the peninsula. It was so windy that the grains of sand pelting the part of my face uncovered by large sunglasses stung, and I felt like a drunk person trying to keep the handlebars steady. Despite the challenges, I enjoyed watching the almighty waves crashing up against the concrete barriers, formed by interlocking bits of concrete that resembled pieces from a giant's game of jacks.

The Guests

This is the off season for the b&b. Although the peninsula is no doubt beautiful at any time of year, right now night falls by 4:45 pm (I googled it and the results indicated that Japan only observes DST "sometimes") and it's much too cold to even dip your toes in the water - that is at the few beaches where the waves are mild enough that it's safe to. Below is a summary of the people who have come to stay during my tenure and my impressions (read: judgements) of them.

The first real challenge was the overnight stay of a children's baseball team with coaches and parents in tow. V was still here, so both of us donned awkwardly large black chef coats, brown aprons and matching newsboy caps, as well as plastic nametags bearing the names of our countries of origin and helped serve dinner. (The nametags were to prevent the guests from trying to engage us in conversation. V, being Spanish, was an obvious foreigner; I am not). The meal was a long and drawn-out affair, full of kids running and yelling in the hallway and the coach's feeble attempts to make them be quiet. Thankfully everyone was quieter the following morning at 6:30 am breakfast.

When we cleaned out the adults' rooms after the group's departure, I had a sudden flashback to the mornings after parties I'd thrown in my room in college - cups, scattered and half-empty, and beer cans that everyone had been too lazy (or drunk) to consolidate into a trash bag. No matter, if those had been my kids I would have been drinking a lot too.

Next came a group of university students who, we were told, had come here to party. We cleared the largest tatami room for their use, but with all its austerity it seemed, to me, the last place I'd want to let loose and potentially make a mess. Whatever shananigans they may have gotten up to, however, they were much neater than the adults in the last group, neatly bagging up all their trash before they left. 

The weekend of a local marathon, a rather unhealthy-looking group of young people stayed for one night. One of the guys had an unfortunate condition that left his sheets and corner of the room covered in flakes of skin that, from afar, looked like crumbs. I shook off what I could outside, and hoped that the lint catcher inside the washing machine would take care of the rest. 

For the most part, though, guests at this time of year are lone travelers, truck drivers, or maintenance workers assigned to the area. All men, of course, whose pungent, left-behind odors after only one or two-night stays never cease to amaze me. (If they're smokers, it's even worse). After checkout we leave the windows open for a day or so, willing God to return the room to state of olfactory neutrality.

There's also the occasional Single White Male, which under the circumstances I put in a separate category. I always hope that they're not here to find a Japanese girlfriend/wife but, you know, yellow fever is as yellow fever does.

No-Name Mountain

On a morning when we didn't have any guests, my host mom cheerfully announced that we'd be going on an excursion with her daughter. We drove a little way out from the inn, to another mountain resting on the peninsula. I asked what it was called. Neither knew.

At the trailhead, mother and daughter performed a little ritual that they have to make decisions - mom pinched her thumb and forefinger together and daughter tried to pull them apart. They did this twice (once for each direction), and somehow divined that we were to head right, which we did. Eventually the path began to slope upward, crude steps cutting into the mountainside that made us lose our breath.

Rounding a corner to see a large red torii gate looming ahead, I realized that the other woman had stopped. I looked back, and noticed their uneasiness. They gestured for me to return to them, and proceeded to take an alternate path up towards the top of the mountain. Once we were far enough away from the shrine, the daughter explained to me, between breaths, that red gates were bad, and that shrines who had them paid homage to foxes, known in Japanese culture for their deception and, in her words, "bad energy." I immediately thought of Fushimi Inari Taisha, one of my favorite places in Kyoto, which has tons of red torii (and so close together they form tunnels) and fox statues.

At the end of the trail is a wooden deck that enables a panoramic view of the surroundings without interference from the tree tops. Panting slightly, I willed myself up the wooden steps, and what should I find at the top but a group of middle-aged bird-watchers dressed in varying degrees of camo. The man I immediately singled out as my favorite was wearing camo pants and jacket (but different shades), a camo face mask and had his phone in a camo pouch attached to his belt. Not to mention the bands of camo covering his DSLR lens. What were they doing up there? Apparently this is prime hawk season. 

We stayed about twenty minutes past the point that I found the group to be entertaining, and truth be told I was feeling cold and slightly hangry (when you get so hungry that it makes you inexplicably irascible). Finally, mom and daughter bade goodbye (my Japanese is still well below the conversational level), and we continued the hike through Flower Road - named for its blooming trees on either side and back down to the car.  

Mom made a detour at the supermarket for bento boxes, which we greedily ate en route to the next destination, a secluded temple called Sempuku-ji. Halfway up a different mountain, this is one of the area's oldest temple, which I had guessed from the faded orange paint, cobwebs and deteriorating wood. After admiring the curious statues inside the main building, we piled back into the car to head home. I had spotted what looked like a trail leading upwards but made a point of keeping quiet about it - I was already beat.

Ready, aim, fire.

Flower road.

Sempuku-ji.

More from this excursion in the Irago album.