A Provincial Province

Before I flew out of Shanghai, A asked me to do one thing for him. Please don't laugh at the Fujianese - everybody on my mission did. I smirked at his bizarre request and then took off.

My boss and I just landed in Fujian, a coastal province where people were known for being provincial, and breathed in the overwhelming humidity. The local taxi driver was playing the perennial favorite Chinese game of "Guess where the foreigner's from." Meanwhile, I was trying not to mimic his feminine quacking accent that was so stereotypical Fujian. As we drove away from the airport, the driver started tapping his steering wheel, perplexed that it was so hard to guess my boss' nationality.

My boss

Hmm. You don't look like us. 

Are you Japanese? But your Mandarin is so good. 

Oh wait, you're darker. Indian?

I know! You must be German. 

No, wait! You can't be - your arm hair is too long.

My boss was a standard six foot three American complete with five every day polos that he rotated.

--

Fujian is also known for its food.

A said that it was Fujian seafood that taught him to appreciate all other Chinese food.

After a late night dinner at a local stall, I finally gained more appreciation for Panda Express. Everything I was eating was just so . . . ugly.

These fish look like retired bull dogs who have given up on life.

 Worms writhing wearily in the water. 

Fish breathing thing.

 Surprising texture of chicken cartilage - crunchy yet chewy.

Durian. Gooey texture with pungent smell. 

A little like eating your own throw up. With chopsticks.

My colleague brought it back to our hotel room

 and I stayed up all night gagging.

Mini lobsters in chili oil. The messiest ever.

Definitely not a first date dish.

Discussing Love on a Lake

We discussed love while rowing on a freshly painted boat on Phewa Lake in Nepal.

He rowed. And I pretended I knew how to.

In the far distance, we could make out the faint outlines of the Annapura, the more accessible mountain range of the mythical Himalayas, which stood proud and silent on that hazy spring day.

Alex steered our boat around the small island that held the non-descript Hindu temple, dressed up like a blushing schoolgirl for the tourists, while we gazed upwards towards the pearly white Buddhist stupa planted up on a neighboring hill.

Sandwiched between the two symbols, we talked of love in the abstract. In the practical. In the religious.

I asked Alex what he knew about Buddhism. He shared with me the few tenets that he knew, most notably that of non-attachment.

I leaned back and frowned at a memory of a dear friend who recently embraced Buddhism. A year ago, she was bitterly and vocally unhappy with her marriage because of a void of understanding, touch, love, and common ideals.  She had dreamed of something different and contemplated divorce. Now, with the smile of the recently converted playing on her lips, she preached non-attachment to me in a crowded, cheap Italian restaurant. While her rambunctious 7 year old son screamed and kicked for his mom's iPhone, she patted him absentmindedly and explained to me why she was happy now. The key was letting go. All couples, regardless of the quality of their relationship, would end up apart at the end of mortal life. So why obsess about the journey? If she stopped hoping for love, then she would not despair over the deafening silence between them. Or the late nights she waited up for him to come home. Or the lack of gentleness.

If she stopped being attached to her husband, then she would be happy.

I swirled around my cream of mushroom soup with the tin spoon, hiding the torrent of anger behind my masked attempt to understand her sentiments. I wanted to scream that she was giving up. That she was settling for a shell of a happy life. We ended our lunch early because her son whined about going to the arcades and snatched my spoon to drum out his demands. I also grew weary of my curious burst of anger.

Alex listened quietly to my story and disillusionment with the concept of letting go.

I passionately argued that at least for myself, I either cared all the way or didn't care at all. Despite my parents cautioning temperance and 'it's just a job' whenever I cried on the phone because I wasn't sure how much more I could physically/ emotionally give to my work, I would still dip into my bank of inner reserve and drum out more energy to find solutions to never-ending problems. Or how I kept reaching out to a family member with a hopeful tentativeness even though she's hung up on me multiple times.

Isn't that what love is? I asked urgently. Not letting go?

In between a few more gentle paddles to maneuver us to a quiet alcove, Alex mused that love, in its ultimate form, is one of letting go of expectations of outcomes. It is the unconditional love that Christ spoke of, because He still loves us eternally regardless of our actions. He brought up the example of a proverbial modern mom who became angry because despite repeated reminders, the daughter was not practicing her instrument. The motive was love and hope that the daughter would develop her talents. But the anger arose because the daughter was not conforming to a set image the mom had crafted. Love, within the context of our conversation, would be for the mom to let go of the story she had weaved in her mind about her reality and instead persevere in love through the difficult, messy, and wonderfully unplotted life she ended up sharing with her daughter.

On our way paddling back to the muddy shores, I scanned the lake for the attachments in my life and saw them splayed out across the rippled surface of the the deepening water. Tangled in my thoughts, I decided to throw my stories, chained to their imagined endings, overboard and just let them sink to the bottom of Phewa. I decided to try to love in the best way I knew how and let things happen as they may. I would let go but not give up.

Across the lake, a proper Nepali storm was rolling in, a harbinger of the monsoon season.

Vacation Philosophy

Once upon a time, a little sheepish with guilt, I asked my boss if he thought I was taking too many days off to go on random backpacking trips.

He smirked and scribbled a signature on my leave request form. His philosophy was that while it's good to be passionate about your work, it's even better to have a job that allowed you to enjoy other things that you were also drawn to. The only way to maintain the drive and the love for what you do was, ironically, to take time off from it once in a while.

He also believed that my trips were an investment back into the company because I always came back brimming with ideas for my team.

Clutching my form, I wasn't about to argue with him.

The next year when I got promoted, he added another two weeks to my annual paid holiday count.

I was so happy that I cried. Now even I have a hard time burning off my holidays.

I guess that is to be expected from a boss who graduated with an MBA before becoming a missionary at 19, while defying the nerd stereotype as a competitive skateboarder and mountain biker. Oh, and he's a sailor and certified pilot with his own "toys" (aka a plane or two).

So, a little concerned that I wasn't putting my vacation days to good use this year, sometime late last night/ early this morning, I simply decided that Nepal needed to be in my future.

Hopped online, called up a friend, grimaced at the tickets, and took the plunge.

See you in two weeks, Kathmandu.

Reexamining Evelyn

I was raised by Filipino women. So for me going to the Philippines was like getting off the steam boat and arriving in an ancestral homeland that you had only ever heard about. Except Andrea and I had stepped off a budget airline and booked ourselves onto an eight hour bus ride across the Pilipino countryside to unplug in a little fishing town called El Nido. We wandered around a lot, got lost in curio shops and avoided chickens on our bicycles.

Street snacks like Chippy (chips) or polveron (crumbly cake) made me feel like a happy little kid again, who was rewarded for finally putting my school shoes on without a tantrum or for keeping my mouth shut/ stuffed when I watched cartoon as Evelyn, our maid, talked future plans with her fiancee on the phone. She annoyed me with her incessant stories of sunshine and happy endings. I tried to explain to her in my six year old bossy tone that she needed to stop pouring sugar over every story twist when we played pretend. Life was more like scolding nuns, school rankings and custody battles. I hated her stories because they were so naive but somehow she was hurt when I didn't buy them. Like that story about the cashew nut tree and how the nuts ended up growing hung upside down outside their protective fruit because they complained so much. Or how you should always be smiling in case the wind changed all of a sudden and your expression froze like that the rest of your life. She really believed the one story about how the more you counted your freckles, the more you would get them. She always applied face creams to "whiten" her freckles. As a weapon of last resort, I terrorized her by loudly counting her freckles when she made me take baths at night.

In a weird way, she did seem to get more freckles after each count. After I noticed that trend, I also started practicing my "wind-changing" face when she wasn't looking. Sometimes penitent, I hugged her and assured her that she was the most beautiful out of all the maids in the park because she was my Evelyn.

I figured out why she thought us playing marbles was the solution to everything. On our frequent walks back to the hostel from the bakery, Andrea and I often saw giggling filipino kids squatting outside their slated tin huts flicking marbles for hours, always narrowly missing their prized fighting roosters who looked at them indignantly from their wooden poles. I could wax philosophical about how happiness was simple there, or rather, simplicity was happiness but that would be understating what dodging torrential rains in the Philippines or laughing with our local hosts did for me in reexamining Evelyn.

I wonder if Evelyn was excited to be in a big cosmopolitan city like Hong Kong and whether she welcomed the wafts of cool air conditioning to the sticky heat in her village. She was probably lonely, so far away from her large family, and a little irrational with her love for her fiancee. She constantly verged between reading me lines from her love letters she was about to send (to help me with my English) and ranting about how men were unreliable because they just gambled away your nest egg money. Her fiancee was at once the most talented prince and the laziest artist. She peddled his drawings during Sundays after church to fellow Filipinos. My impression of him was slick hair and an exaggerated Minnie Mouse card he drew me once for my birthday. She never ended up marrying him. She never ended up married at all.

Honestly, I had never really considered Evelyn as a separate entity from me. In my selfish little six year old world, Evelyn was the nucleus of my life, there to make me happy. But I was unhappy a lot. So I chalked it up to her stories not being good enough, to her not letting me stay up late to watch TV, to her not being able to learn Cantonese as fast as I could teach her. She wasn't able to magic away my parents' divorce so I exacted revenge by being as difficult as I possibly could. But somehow her optimism was indefatigable and the stories about fishing and nuts and marbles kept coming. She really was trying to teach me to be happy and more trusting.

I fancied that whenever I turned a corner on the streets in El Nido, I would somehow bump into Evelyn selling bread or her fantastic deep fried banana fritters. Maybe she did eventually find her prince and build her dream house. Then I could finally show her what "wind-changing" face I had decided on. I think that would really make her throw her head back and laugh.

Evelyn used to make the best fried chicken in town. 

Somehow these kids were always so happy. Even when one

of their balls fell into the water.

Chickens roamed free everywhere.

A stereotypical Filipino hut. 

Wooden fences, tin roofs, and banana leaves walls.

Finding Nemo in Phillippines

We stood in our adolescent awkwardness, self-consciously tugging at our cling film-esque navy school swimming suits, while waiting for our PE teacher to sound the call for class to start.

It was second period of seventh grade and also my first day at a new school.

The boys and the girls naturally segregated themselves on opposite ends of the benches. Boys pushed each other around, testing out their new gained muscles from the summer, while the girls showed off  their haircuts or friendship bracelets from camp.

Mr Lant, who constantly reminded me of a sleek greyhound that would nip at your ankles if you slowed down, walked in with his clip board and barked out the training itinerary. After surveying the row of nervous fresh meat with his piercing blue eyes, he paused in my direction. "Welcome," he looked down at his clipboard, "Class, it seems that we have another Messick with us."

All little heads bobbed acknowledgement at me. "Glad to have another superstar athlete at this school. We love 'em Messicks. Ok, kids. Jump in the pool quickly and do your laps. And if you guys finish fast, then we're going to have an epic showdown between Casey and Sisi! Who do you think will win?"

The kids bounced off the bleachers and yelled out their allegiance as they splashed into the pool. "Casey! Casey!" "Sisi! Sisi!"

I waddled over to Mr Lant and tugged at his shirt.

"Mr Lant," I mumbled, "I don't know how to swim."

"What? What do you mean you can't swim? You have your period or something?"

". . . No. I just mean that I can't swim."

"You're just nervous about the race with your brother later. Jump in the pool."

Desperately, I splashed into the pool like a baby penguin diving off the iceberg and landing straight into the mouth of a polar bear. He watched me for a few seconds, then swearing in surprise, pulled me out and directed me to the handicap lane.

And there I stayed throughout high school.

-----

But the thing was I did learn how to swim.

And every time I travel to a new place and snap on my snorkeling mask, I think of Mr Lant. Sometimes, still self-consciously checking my strokes, but mostly, just grateful that I didn't fake periods to get out of PE like all the other girls because I actually liked Mr Lant belting out the "A sailor went to Si-si-si" nursery songs and giving me the "Best Attitude" awards while I huffed and puffed in PE.

I thought of Mr Lant a lot when Andrea and I went on our spontaneous girls' trip to Philippines in July.

Nothing beats swimming in warm waters, staring down 

at fish that ignore you because they are too busy

chasing each other among the corals.

From the right angle, corals look like magical snow cones.

From a different angle, they look like your worst vegetable nightmare.
Either way, it's hauntingly beautiful.

Swimming with the cast of Finding Nemo - well all except

for the dentist and the sharks. 

We kayaked around caves, looked for swallows that flew down

and attacked you, and claimed empty stretches of

beach as our own. We covered up in floppy hats because
an Irish boy at our hostel got burned and stayed brick red the
entire time we were there.

Rings of blue. Yeah, this was really the color of
the water. No filter. Just pure amazement.

I got lots of awkward board shorts tan lines,
which refuse to go away even now.

We always managed to stow away our kayaks away
just in time before a huge storm rolled in.

Bagan

On a whim, we took the morning flight into Bagan and biked around the mystical land of 4000 temples.

We rented bikes and zig-zagged our way along the sandy roads

and stopped at the temples that drew us in.

Everybody under the blazing sun smeared thanaka, a yellow

paste made out of tree bark, on their faces. 

Impossible to get a high five in this town just

because I was a girl.

Shwezegon. 

These kids were the best sales people ever. 

You want to buy postcard?

I already bought 6 from you and 3 from him.

Ok, maybe later. Think about it, ok? Ok?

After a long day, we chartered our own private boat to go up the coast

so we could catch our 11 hour bus ride back to Yangon.

We were toasting with ice cold lychee drinks, celebrating a fantastic view

and a successful bike trip, when all of a sudden, our boat stopped. 

The boatmen thought we only wanted to go up the coast to check out

the temple from a distance. Instead, we desperately needed to get back to 

the bus stop near the temple so we could make it back to Yangon.

But there was no way to pull the boat to shore because of the wide sand bank.

So we made a quick decision and said a silent prayer.
We had one hour till the only bus left this town
and we needed to be on it.
We jumped off the boat and starting wading.

Waving around some bills, I mimicked to the boatmen that I needed
their help to carry our bikes to the sand bank.

And then came a five mile hike on baked sand, bare feet, and
a lot of blind faith. We all took turns carrying/ pushing/cursing
those bikes. Especially, when we hit another river that
 separated us from dry land.

Miraculously, there were also other fishermen on paddle boats who

understood our frantic waving. So we threw our bikes on their 

boats and drummed our fingers on the wet planks, praying that we

could move faster.

Once across the river, we left the bemused fishermen and ran through the pig farms. We hit the main road and peddled as fast as we could. 

We made it as the bus was backing out.

Half soaked and freezing cold, we rode for the next 11 hours, listening to Gangnam Style on replay, and wondered why Myanmar's totalitarian government could not have at least added this song onto their block list.

----

There is an inverse correlation between the number of adventures I have vs. the number of posts I write. It's not because I get too busy. It's because I get bored writing travelogues. Instead, I love writing funny stories that happen throughout the day because nobody, not even me, will remember them a week later.

Just a realization that I write nonsense so much better than things that matter . . . and grappling with what that means about myself as a casual writer. Gee. At this rate, I might as well start taking photos of my daily outfits and then write random thoughts underneath them. 

Burmese Nights

The best thing about backpacking in Myanmar during the curfews and the riots was that nobody else was. So there were virtually no lines at the airport and the visa lady looked bored. Bored visa ladies made good visa ladies . . . especially if you could blatantly compliment her creased patterned shirt to get your visa expedited.

Flying into Yangon. From Dhaka, we had to fly through

 Singapore and Bangkok even though Bangladesh

 and Myanmar were next door. 

I suppose people typically didn't fly from one of the poorest countries

to a neighboring totalitarian country.

Myanmar had been on my bucket list for years, after a friend whom I admired showed me slide after slide of blue skies and a nation largely untouched by tourists with poorly applied sun screen. Somehow, in my mind, when I was intently imaging myself also poking my head outside the dilapidated trains, that I would become somehow more wise, more accomplished, more grown up if I could just get myself there.

And I was finally here. Here in a modern day closed-off nation ruled by a military junta that was slowly relinquishing power to the people. I had imagined dirt roads and impoverished eyes. Instead, I saw expertly manicured hedges, smooth roads, genuinely happy and selfless people who spoke fantastic English, and a respect for Buddhist culture that was reverent yet pragmatic.

Police in full riot gear drawing the battle lines along our hostel road. 

Honestly, I was a little disappointed that I didn't see any major action.

The most dedicated checkers players

 played with carefully collected bottle caps.

A 3D postcard of Bagan, the land of 4000 temples, at the flea market. 

It's now on my bedroom wall, reminding me that though

I wasn't the hand that lovingly etched lines into the

oxen and then mounted them onto this vivid water color, 

I was blessed enough to feel affected by simple beauty. 

One night after wandering aimlessly and eating at various food stalls, we flagged down a taxi and bargained down the price to our hostel. The driver cruised around, trying to figure out a way into the riot police-infested district. After several frustrating turns, he finally pulled over and asked for directions. On both sides of the car door, they gesticulated widely and jabbered in rapid Burmese. Finally, in surprisingly near-fluent English, the pedestrian asked if we wanted to get out of the taxi and into his car down the street so he could drive us to our hostel.

We peered out through the window. His shoulder-length waves were hanging limply around his round cheeks because of the punishing humidity. His longyi was knotted right above his big cheerful belly and he leaned back a little bit as if to balance his frontal load a little better. He smiled at us, waving us to the promise of his car in the dark alley way.

We narrowed our eyes. No, we'll stay with the taxi, thank you. 

He laughed easily and thought for a moment. Ok, well I'll just come with you then. He ran around the back of the taxi, and hopped in the front. He fired off decisive driving instructions and turned around to regal us with stories of his days as a sailor on freighters that went to LA, Philippines, China, and other exotic locales. He was shipping out again in a week. Just can't stay long at home before I miss the sea, you know. 

As the taxi screeched to a halt in front of our hostel, we hastily pulled out bills to thank him for leading us home. He shook his head. I pulled out more, interpreting it to be inadequate. No, no. I don't need anything. Give it to the driver instead. He lumbered out of the front seat and promptly turned around to leave. At least let us pay for your taxi ride back? It's at least a 40 min walk. He smiled again. It's nice to walk on ground that does not move. Don't worry about me. 

We watched, as he crossed the street and joked with the children who were playing tag in the moonlight. 

Catching the sunset of Yangon on top of the Sakura Towers.

Massages with awkward contortions. 

Somehow, the boys didn't get the royal treatment like I did.

Myanmar had the best street food.

A History of Kindness

He ran his fingers through his hair, shiny with grease, and brandished his practiced smile. Let me be your tour guide. Your bodyguard. Your little brother. Just follow me, I'll take you to the best shawerma places.

The teenager bounced along, constantly hovering next to Mike, protectively guarding us away from other begging children and shooing them along to find their own foreigners. He could hardly contain himself, his bits of English phrases spilling out of his lop-sided mouth and his hands always patting, edging, pulling, beckoning us constantly into dark alleys and overpriced cafes.

I hung back with our German friend, Nina, and watched. Even though I had flown into Bangladesh with wads of US dollar bills prepared to hand out to begging children on the streets, I was vastly unprepared for the overwhelming want. At every stoplight, hordes of the previously invisible swarmed the vehicles, peddling books/posters/maps/tupperware/giant baskets and cupping their fingers together at the mouth to indicate that they were hungry. I tired of putting my wallet back into my purse because I would be pulling it out again five seconds later. And beggars could be choosers. Often, the hand that took would shoot out again and ask for some more. A lot more.

So at the end of a sticky, dusty day, I ran out. Out of small bills. Out of patience. Out of get-out-of-skeptism-free card. And I watched carefully and felt anxious the more Mike clapped his hands on the little bodyguard's shoulders and asked about his family and laughed at his jokes. I mentally starting calculating how much each extra minute would cost me.

Am I a good bodyguard, no? You be my bigger sister, yes? 

And at the end, I steered Mike and Nina towards our actual destination, paid the little bodyguard, told him no, we wouldn't pay you three times more and relaxed.

Little bodyguard telling Mike about his music.

As I kneeled at the edge of my hotel bed that night, smelling the cheap laundry soap from the white-grey sheets, I realized I was in the box about the whole situation (re: "Leadership and Self-deception"). Even armed with good intentions and a seemingly bottomless wallet of small change, I did not pause to engage with them as people. I saw them as objects that constantly needed something from me and that by giving, giving, giving, I was merely fulfilling a social obligation and justifying a personal moral high ground.

When I paused to give freshly-picked strawberries and a little pocket change to the old man on the street in front of my China office, I felt genuinely happy and fulfilled. I talked to him about how nice the weather had been. I smiled and felt what it meant. But somehow, when I was in Bangladesh, perhaps because of unfamiliarity or a sense of being overwhelmed, I was acting charitable but not feeling charitable.

So that night, I prayed for true charity. I begged for an open heart. I pleaded to see the goodness of the people around me and let it change me.

The next morning, Mike and I cruised around on our rickshaws down the forgotten alleyways and looked out for good places to buy some local garb. Then, in the midst of a sweaty crowd of onlookers, in one of the densest countries in the world, our little bodyguard waved to us enthusiastically. Hey! Big sister, remember me?

Something whispered in my heart - This was the second chance you asked for.

I got off the rickshaw looked at him in the eyes, and smiled.

How's your family, little bodyguard?

Ah man. You're my family now. Come, come. I'll take you to buy a beautiful dress. 

They were forcing a little fluffy yellow chick to open its beak.

And they were dripping clear liquid through a plastic syringe into its mouth.

It was a street exhibition but I couldn't figure out what

 they were doing with the poor thing. 

Can't wait for spring so I have an excuse to put flowers in my hair again.

"Are you formed yet?" 

Bangladeshi tailors often marveled at my lack of curves.

Life Before a Riot

Vengeful batons. Crippling strikes. Decaying acid. Consuming fires.

That was the picture that our wedding hosts painted for us when we wanted to venture out to Old Dhaka - the poor parts of Bangladesh's capital . . . or rather the real parts. One of the wedding events was scheduled to take place in the safer diplomatic zone, but was ultimately delayed because of a concern for guest safety.

The hotel receptionist looked at our faces for once and dropped her carefully practiced smile onto the scattered notepads on the concierge table. You want to go to Sardarghat? No, no, no. Hartal - strike and permission to riot - starts at sun down. You read the newspapers? What happens if you get stuck when it all begins?

We would be back before sun down, I promised.

Mike and I hopped into the car, grabbed a shawerma at a stand with the least number of flies swarming around it, and headed into the gridlocked traffic. Cars in Dhaka crawled because even the wealthiest diplomatic zones were riddled with random pot holes. Many times, while bouncing along the uneven alley ways perched on a rickshaw, I had nearly bounced off and fallen into the 12 ft deep holes filled with suspicious curry/urine yellow rivers.

Apparently, a guy once become famous for trying out all

 the most dangerous forms of transportation around the world.

 Dhaka ferries made the list.

 They capsize.

Regularly.

You may not have clothes, but you can

 always make a boat out of trash.

The heart of Old Dhaka was thumping constantly with angry rickshaw horns blaring, men shouting while balancing thirty watermelons in baskets on their heads, and ferries bellowing their impatience to cross the diesel-black waters. We breathed Dhaka in the oil-fried fritters, the lazy entrails of incense on Hindu Street, and the pervasive stench from the freshly decomposing trash.

We knew we were spoken about in rapid Bengali because of the finger pointing, the confused looks, and the occasional jokes in broken English. When I was buying neon holi powder in a small corner store, laborers crowded around Mike and pointed to me and asked him about his "Chinese housewife." Whenever we insisted that we were just friends, they nodded with mock seriousness and jabbed his side, smirking ahh special friends. 

Buying holi powder so we could recreate the color

festival on a lazy afternoon.

Armed with only five Bengali words and a comedic bargaining act,

 I teased, I entertained and I got the price I wanted. 

You couldn't out-bargain a China girl.

In contrast with the wealthier zones, where cars were perpetually at a standstill and ladies chattered as they strolled into beauty parlors, Old Dhaka was the nervous cousin who couldn't stop twitching because he was always anxious about something he had to do. But the general frenzy entered a fever pitch when the sun started to set. Rickshaws competed even more aggressively for moving space in the densest city in the world, trapping us at one point in the middle of an unholy triangle of three rickshaws, unable to move until we physically pushed aside a rickshaw and carved our way out.

I was bold and felt the strength of my youth when I laughed at the receptionist's caution. But I shrank a little bit as the sky grew dimmer and unconsciously huddled closer to Mike. I pulled on his sleeve and asked if he noticed it. Noticed what? I motioned, sweeping the street with my arm, where are the women and children?

The men stayed tense on the streets. They were no longer joking.

It was time to go.

-------

I wondered if some of my friends would still treat me as an equal if I didn't hail from a similar economic background. Some had commented, bored, about how inconvenient the hartal made everything. They raised their eyebrows when I was eager to see Sardarghat. Why? That's just where the poor people live.

On the banks of Sardarghat