Very frou-frou French-imperial-military shoulder pads at Zara in Ginza
I haven`t been here in a while after I overdosed on Tokyo last year when my family and my friend visited within a month of eachother. Now, what`s a stop in Tokyo without a venture to Zara? Interestingly, across the street there was Abercrombie & Fitch, looking more like a nightclub due to zero window displays. Back home in the mall, shirtless boys greet you as you enter. Would Japan showcase shirtless boys too?
Into the cavernous store I walked, and there they were, chiselled flawlessly (they must`ve been more perfect than Ken dolls), jeans hanging down perfectly too low. I couldn`t look away. And they - and the fully-clothed girls - were dancing, as if in a Japanese club (i.e. awkwardly). Most were of mixed of foreign background. The walls were covered in murals, fused Rockwellian personages (although risque, as A&F would have it) in Baroque settings, and a staircase coiled up and up through this mesmerizing store, where sex was the keen salesman.
おにはそと！ ふくはうち！ (Devils, get out！ Good luck, come in！)
Today in Japan is the beginng of spring. It's the day when kids yell the words above, and pelt their dads outfitted in demon (oni) masks with roasted soybeans. They banish the demons from their homes and call for good luck in spring. Then people eat as many beans as their age.
The yearly event is called 節分 (Setsubun, or literally, season seperation).
A secretary informed me of this phenomenon today, then wrote up an information sheet. Interesting piece of Japanese superstition: "Roasted beans have been used as a charm against demons since ancient times."
In Laos, Magellan (left) and Vespucci surveying the vastness of this wondrous country.
My travel companion to Southeast Asia was one Steve B., who flew into Bangkok from Chicago where he directs shows of the night sky at the Adler Planetarium and studies physics at a local university. Perhaps the definition of a Chatty Cathy, Steve's middle name should have been Gregarian. This guy was able to bond with little children trying to swindle him out of money, not-immediately friendly tribes women in the mountains above Chiang Mai in northern Thailand, Lao men who - with their detailed inquiries about our travels - could have easily been agents of the secret police, and a slew of European and American tourists, among others. I truly lucked out with company well chosen on this trip.
I used Lomolitos to shoot most of my photos on the trip through Thailand, Laos and Vietnam. It's a film camera, with a flash that comes with a rectangle of colored film to color the light . For my trip to Russia, I used a camera with a yellow flash. The cameras are rather junky (the appeal is in the imperfection of the lens, which seems to blur the edges), made like disposables and not built to last, so I purchased a second one for this trip. It was the last one, with a red flash, which is an unflattering color for light-skinned people. I detached the yellow film from the old camera and stuck it on the new, now using both red and yellow side-by-side and overlapping to create the bright colors you see in the photos.
The ruins of a wat (temple) built by a king to store the remains of his father; in Ayuthaya, about an hour north of Bangkok by train
This is all that's left of a full-body statue of the Buddha At Wat Phra Mahathat; in Ayuthaya
A wat in Bangkok
Buddha on the wat grounds, with many more, sitting, standing, as far as the eye could see; in Bangkok.
A cemetery at a wat in Lop Buri, about three hours north of Bangkok by train
Thailand's neighbor to the West is Burma, a state controlled by a military junta since 1988. People live in poverty caused by the corruption of the government, poverty that is aggravated by international trade embargoes as well as a weaker tourism than in the rest of the region. Yet tourists still come, though they are carefully steered to the cultural relics, the Buddhist temples, which are supposedly stupendous and numerous, away anything more controversial. The junta built many temples upon taking power, sinking big money into the religious structures to achieve good karma, spiritual favor.
You'd think Thailand was itself ruled by a corrupt junta looking for otherworldly forgiveness, judging by the number of temples it has and by their sheer size and beauty. In Bangkok especially, sitting atop a curve in the main river - Mae Nam Chao Phraya - is a plaza of the gaudiest temples in the country, decorated in shining gold with bright red mosaics, serenely separated from the taxis, tuk tuks, and food stalls by pristine tall white walls, isolated like a snow globe from reality.
A shrine; Dusit neighborhood
Along the streets in Dusit neighborhood, north of Bangkok's tourist shopping streets, next to noodle stands and people selling women's Capri pants, there sit women stringing together marigolds into bright yellow and orange garlands which decorate home and public shrines, from the one in the yard of our guesthouse, to one by an abandoned ship dock. In a country where denouncing the ruler - King Phumiphon Adunyadet - and the national religion - Buddhism - are crimes, stringing together these garlands seems like a wise choice for a job. Flowers die quickly, after all.
In Lop Buri, the town overrun by monkeys, we surveyed a wat by the river when a man invited us up the stairs and into a large roofed wooden terrace. On the far right, women sat at a long table, next to cauldrons of food and stacked plates. On the far left, there was a shrine of carefully arranged flowers. Our host led us to the shrine and we saw a photograph of a man. It was his funeral. An old woman sat by the shrine, she was his wife? His mother? It was difficult to tell his age from his portrait. We bowed repeatedly, trying to please the old woman's demands. Then the host led us to the long table and the women ladled rice and curry into large bowls. The man brought us water, the women handed us peeled tangerines, and everyone watched us honor the deceased with our appetites.
Riding an elephant is an unsteady endeavor, especially when your riding partner weighs twice as much as you do, sitting side-by-side on a flat bench somehow hoisted to the animal's back. And if you're not picky with the elephant park you choose, it's also a sad endeavor.
Our guide - a grimy guy with a fat cigarette rolled with some mysterious substance, wearing skinny jeans and a t-shirt which proclaimed "I'm Beautiful!!" right where his mullet hit his back - was armed with an annoyed shriek and a wooden slingshot. His target was the animal that kept him employed. If the elephant would stop, would veer slightly off course, would patiently wait for its young to catch up - all elephants were accompanied by a baby, probably for motivation - the guide would assault its head with kicks and pelts of the slingshot.
When not riding on the animal's neck, he walked in front, aiming his slingshot at the mother and child to scare them when they didn't obey. At least one other guide was armed with a wooden stick with a hook jutting out at the end. He would hit the elephant with the wood part of the stick, making a blunt and loud popping noise. I'm sure he used the hook plenty when squeamish tourists weren't looking.
It was however very entertaining to interact with the elephants. They practically ripped the bananas we bought for them out of our hands. The mother reached back over her head and exhaled deeply, and the baby acted like a thief using his dirty nose to rifle through my pockets. They'd also sneeze and blow water on us, hopefully wildly entertaining themselves.
I'm working on a lecture about Soviet animation, and so I've been watching my share of cartoons recently from several decades ago. This one is toward the end of the DVD my dad sent me, called Masters of Russian Animation. I loved it. The subject was entirely unexpected for me, as was the execution of it, because from what I saw of the popular Soviet approach to rest of the world, I would have expected parody, similar to Warner Brothers cartoons in the United States. Instead, it was a thoughtful take on traditional Japan. Cool.
For 1400 baht each, Steve and I headed into the mountains northwest of the Thai city of Chiang Mai. Between 9 and 9:20 in the morning (or really after 9:30) we got on a pickup truck taxi outfitted in the back with a roof and two benches facing each other. There would be 8 trekkers on the first day of our 2-day trip.
There was the Londoner whose parents immigrated from Bangladesh in the '60s. His name is pronounced "Toe-hit."A manager implementing the mayor's policies to improve the poorer areas of the city, he was now gone for three-and-a-half months from his native country. On the trip, he traveled to more towns than can be named, from the countries far in the south of southeast Asia, then diving down the backbone of Vietnam, heading into Cambodia, Laos, and then Thailand.
There were Steve, Tammy and Steve's daughter, Michelle. Michelle studied abroad in Thailand for 6 months 2 years ago, getting lost for fun and drinking the local water carelessly. She was now in college. Steve and Tammy seemed out of place in the pickup, as it traveled out of the city. They were from Wisconsin, Midwestern suburbanites to a 'T'. They wore unflattering loose-fitting shorts and matching red fleece jackets. Tammy liked to listen and smiled widely. She was married once to a Native American man, with whom she had 10 children, who now range from 8 to 26 years of age. Before the divorce, their house had two floors, with three kids to each room. Steve was married once before and had two daughters. Both he and Tammy were professional campers and camp fire maintainers. Tammy wore stunning rings on both ring fingers, the kinds of rings that got you admiration in department stores back home. On her left was a two-band wedding ring with diamonds. The one on her right looked like a silver nest that housed many tiny diamonds. Steve would sometimes ask slightly embarrassing questions, like whether the movie theaters in Japan served squid instead of popcorn.
Then there were the Spaniards, Israel, 30, and Ester, 29. I didn't like them from the beginning, but at the end, I knew I'd happily want to see them again. Not quick to smile, they seemed to isolate themselves. Ester wasn't confident in her English and so wasn't confident to talk to anyone but her boyfriend of 12 years. Israel was open, but a bit of a know-it-all, who in Asia had traveled to China, Cambodia, Vietnam and now Thailand. When we stopped at the market almost an hour out of town to gather provisions for the day's dinner and next morning's breakfast, they made the rest of the group wait as they shopped for sandals and grapes, both pre-packaged in plastic. The grapes, they explained, were for a properly Spanish celebration of the New Year. Steve, my travel companion, explained that the Spanish were relaxed about time in their country, so they weren't trying to be jerks.
Our guide for the day was Dang, a native of the hill tribe called the White Karen. About a century ago, the Karen escaped fighting in Burma. Their unmarried women wear white tunics, currently with flip flops and sometimes over skinny jeans. We were to spend New Year's Eve in their village, where Dang was born 33 years ago and spent the first 20 years of his life. Then he came to live to Chiang Mai, the large city three hours away. He learned the Thai language, as well as some English and Japanese while on the job. For two years, he has been working as a guide for tourists. He is unmarried, because he puts his job first, always. He also smokes. As we trekked up into the forest, we took breaks for him to refuel his "gasoline," as he called the cigarettes.
After eating lunch and playing at the base of a waterfall, we marched up into the mountains. The ground was dry and bulbous, like the back of a giant turtle. The rainy season was months away, and the forest floor was covered with giant brown leaves. In the trees, I spotted orchid nests, bowl-like and molded from dry leaves, protecting the bulbs inside. These forests are home to tigers, so as we walked, I considered a plan of action if one were to strike our guide and move on to the rest of us. After all, I was second in line when I was thinking about this. We arrived at the village before dinner.
The village has 190 people, 24 of them children who attend a school at the top of the hill. The plaque at the front of the school is written in Thai - which is not their native language - and English. They have 4 teachers, 2 Thai and 2 Karen. Households have their own livestock - Japanese water buffalo, chickens and ducks, and pigs tied to posts and trees - and farm their own rice on the sprawling rice paddies at the dips in the hills.
Their homes come with government-subsidized solar panels, used to run things like TVs, and are built on stilts. Originally, these were the garages for the buffalo, until a couple decades ago a tiger came and took out a couple dozen animals. Now, the chickens, pigs and their piglets run around under the houses, where the families also keep a variety of junk unique to each household. We didn't exactly figure out how the buffalo have since been protected from the tigers.
As the sun rapidly set, it became cold. I shuffled at the entrance of the cooking hut where Dang and two village men cooked dinner. There was the absolutely foreignly unspicy delicious green curry (thanks to Ester's preference for the bland) and the vegetarian sweet and sour vegetable and fried tofu stir-fry (thanks to the partially vegetarian Michelle, who decided to incorporate fish in her diet because doing otherwise in Thailand would mean lying to yourself about what you're consuming). Dang was also grilling pork over the fire, but that wasn't for us. They offered me the rice wine they were drinking, made locally by boiling rice once, and then boiled again a week later. Like Japanese sake, said Dang. And so it was; we were drinking Karen sake for the rest of the night as we waited for our watches to announce the midnight of a new year.
After dinner, Steve (my travel companion, not the man currently married to Tammy), entertained the crowd with card tricks, and we all told stories about learning and using different languages. Ester and Israel described their disappointment over the Spanish system where, unlike in most of the rest of Western Europe, people are primarily fluent in just one language. "Toehit" chimed in that the U.K. had the worst system in Europe, where people relied solely on English. The Americans gave a loud ditto.
Later on, around the camp fire, we entertained the local kids with digital photos and thanks to Steve, the sky show operator, with tours of the night sky with the binoculars, and they sang to us songs in English, Karen and even Japanese, as women rocked their babies to sleep. By this point, Steve had admitted to the Spaniards that he in fact spoke their language, and the chatty pair of travelers that we were until then, suddenly we fell mute to each other. Steve spoke Low Spanish, the Spaniards High. They pronounced their "c" as a "th" and felt a breath of fresh air upon hearing Steve's peculiar Mexican dialect. Steve laughed with them, as he and Israel bonded, and Ester never smiled wider than when she was entertaining the curious children.
As for me, Dang and I struck up a conversation communicating mostly in Japanese. We chatted with a local woman who sold bags of the rice wine to 20-year-old youths about the family structure in America and the average age of childbirth. She was puzzled that Americans waited so long to start families.
The youths wore skinny jeans. One had a wonderful untamed mane with blond highlights that he combed over a bald spot at the front of his head on the left side, the result of a motorcycle accident. The other kid was definitely emo. The hair told it all. They unsuccessfully baked a giant root in the fire which the dogs tried to eat the following morning. We passed around especially strong cigarettes rolled with tobacco and dried papaya leaves.
As time approached, Israel looked preoccupied, even nervous. Thirty minutes before midnight, Ester began counting off 12 grapes for each person, according to Spanish tradition. During each of the last 12 seconds of the year, we had to eat a grape. Twelve seconds, 12 grapes, for good luck. We shoved the grapes into our mouths, stood up and began firing off bottle rockets, which we held in our hands. There were no bottles lying around anyway. Israel's rockets, however, kept exploding as he held them in his hand. They weren't flying. By this point, he was frustrated and his eyes glistened. One. Two. Three exploded in his hand, while for the rest of us, they flew into the forest and exploded loudly in a village not celebrating and instead trying to sleep. Israel was flustered. This is not good luck for me, he said. I must try again. Ester was up on a hill, on the other side of the camp fire by now and Dang called her over. Fire the fourth rocket together. It'll work, he said. So they did, but it went flying through the open door of our bathroom. BANG!
One more, one more, everyone said and gave Israel tips. Don't hold it too tightly. But don't let go too early. Israel and Ester held it together and it flew into the sky. Minutes later, up on the hill, Israel proposed to Ester and she said yes. The wedding will be on September 18th in Madrid. It was their second proposal. Right before jumping out of a plane with a parachute, Ester asked Israel whether he wanted to get married. He said yes, and jumped, admitting to us he was then more scared of marriage than of jumping from the plane. So again it happened, in 2010, in the mountains of Thailand. She said yes, and the following morning, the two were married in the tradition of the Karen people. They wore traditional clothes, passed around a shot of whiskey and ate two boiled chickens.
The Karen people marry once. If the spouse dies, the surviving partner never remarries. As we were all going into our sleeping hut the night he proposed, Israel turned to me and asked; So in this village, marriage is for life, right? Yes, I answered. He sighed with relief. In the morning, village life picked up at around 6:30. It was too cold to sleep in our house, and Steve was already up, as always, very early. We watched women hacking away at wood to get kindling for fires and collecting water from the water hoses. Roosters had crowed much earlier; in fact one after the other, they screamed out on New Year's Eve as we talked and Dang jumped with excitement. This was a sign of good luck, he said.
After seven, the young women in the village worked on a see-saw-like rice huller, that sent a giant pestle crashing into a giant mortar full of rice. They then sifted the rice with wooden platter-sized sieves.
After sunrise, the hills filled with smoke. Breakfast. Our hosts ate rice with meat, while we had towers of toast with jam and butter, scrambled eggs, and tea and Nescafé with sugar - a Thai obsession - served to us.
After we packed up, a second host, whom Dang jokingly called "Lady Boy" the night before - in reference to Thailand's ubiquitous and widely accepted transsexuals - led the Spaniards and Steve and me back down the mountains through forests that had mostly shed their giant leaves for the winter.
(see more photos from the entire trip here, here, here and here on Facebook)
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Lopburi was a small town a couple hours north of Bangkok. We took the train there from Ayuthaya. Right outside the train station on Na Kala street there are ruins, and the town seems to exist in semi-demolished state, because its modern goings-on coexist with ancient ruins.
The town has something more to offer than ruins and really friendly people though. There live other locals who aren't always as friendly, but nevertheless entertaining. This is our hotel a few minutes' walk from the station, right along Na Kala.
Bangkok is a fascinating town, home to a few international districts. There was Little India with restaurants, confectioneries and a mall. There was Little China with a bright temple. And there was Little Japan with its restaurants and ... the Red Light District. Unlike in the rest of the city, this part of Bangkok had stacked glowing signs advertising clubs and bars occupying spaces one above the other in tall buildings, just like in Japan. Girls selling tricks poured out into the street in fashions that mimicked the youth of Japan. What an eerie exhilarating sight.
For 13 baht (less than 50 American cents), people travel along the Mae Nam Chao Phraya, the main river snaking around the old part of Bangkok. Our guesthouse was in Dusit, a neighborhood north of the main tourist district of Banglamphu. We'd jump on the boat along with other Thai people and tourists and go south into the main part of town.
My friend Steve and I went to Southeast Asia over our winter break. We started our trip in Bangkok, then took the train up through Thailand, sailed down the Mekong River in Laos and finally flew to Hanoi. I will post a few videos I made with my phone while in Thailand.
Currently, I'm being a horrible traveller; I'm exploring the Internet rather than the streets of Bangkok, the city where I arrived last night at 10 p.m. I think it comes down to, in part, fear and exhaustion from lack of sleep. For the first time, I'm in a new country on my own. The people seem friendly, but the idea of the scary dark foreign country still lingers. Fortunately, my friend and co-explorer arrives this evening to ease this unfortunate situation.
The guest house where we are staying has ample Internet, but no hot water. The beds are pretty hard too. But somehow everything still makes perfect sense. For one, it's less than 5 bucks per person per night. And, I'm in Bangkok. Things are good. For breakfast, I had something akin to a crepe-like pastry rolled around a thin omelet made with bananas, chopped up into crispy squares, and topped with condensed milk and sugar. I also bought a bunch of small bananas for 10 baht (about 30 cents), and a 10 baht bottle of fresh cane juice. There's a Russian phrase to describe this kind of sugary ridiculousness, and it goes: Your butt cheeks will stick together. I guess people here don't know it.
With local food in one's stomach, stuff begins to really make sense. People seem even friendlier than they already are. So hopefully that fear thing will be gone soon. Now about this exhaustion ...
This is the character for gold: 金. It's also the basic character for all metals. Silver is銀 and bronze is銅. You'll notice 金 squeezed in next to 同, which means "same", for bronze, and next to 良, which means "good", for silver. Well ... sort of. 良 is missing the little stroke on top. So on its own, the unfinished character is meaningless.
Tells me Hideki, a local Shizuokan: Bronze medalists are celebrated, because their medal is equated to first place ("same gold") because they beat out the fourth-place competition and won a medal. But the silver medalists won nothing, a meaningless medal, because they failed to truly win gold. He tells me that supposedly at the Olympics, Japanese bronze medalists celebrate, but the silver medalists shed a tear. The gold winners are of course the big shots.
