Moving on ...

I no longer contribute to Reporting from Asia because I've moved back to Southern California where I work as a reporter for City News Service.

If you have questions about my travels e-mail me at jdavis08@gmail.com.

Thank you for reading.

Surviving the Beijing subway

His legs twitched in anticipation. His entire body began to sway on the loading platform of the Beijing subway.

Behind this man stood an entire crowd of Chinese people waiting impatiently for the doors of the train to open.

Communism never seemed further away as I stare at hundreds of businessmen and women jammed onto the platform.

An alarm sounded, the crowd tensed and the doors opened.

People spilled into the train car. Within seconds every available seat was full.

*Working men and women wait for their stop on the Beijing subway.

A date at McDonald's??

Couples snuggled up in red booths.

Some laughed while feeding each other french fries and chicken nuggets.

My local friends told me the best place for a date in Beijing is none other than McDonald's. My sister Grace, Adelaide and I ordered chocolate shakes and french fries to observe Beijing's dating culture.

A couple opposite to us sat silently, eating french fries without comment. We ruled that date was a bust. Nearby another couple cuddled shamelessly. A few others were feeding each other fries.

The reasons for McDonald's popularity? My local friends inform me McDonald's is clean, safe and affordable.

In the United States, McDonald's has a reputation for being a fast food joint. In Beijing (and other parts of China), McDonald's has been raised to a higher level of culture.

I bit into a fry and laughed as one couple secretly held hands under the table. Only in China.

*Adelaide, my sister Grace and I enjoying the number one hang out in Beijing at McDonald's.

Polluted Olympics

Climbing the steps of the Great Wall, I took a deep breath of Beijing air and quickly found myself in a coughing fit.

A deep haze obscured the view of the wall as it winded up and down the mountains outside of Beijing.

Coming from the Los Angeles area, I am familiar with air pollution. The pollution in and around Beijing made L.A. seem clean and beautiful.

The city of Beijing seems to be rushing furiously to prepare for the 2008 Olympic Games. Everyone seems to be anticipating the moment when the torch enters the city.

Nearly every monument, museum and building seems to be under construction. Even the Great Wall was not left untouched.

My friend Adelaide and I agreed that the Beijing factories were working overtime in preparation for the Olympics. The Beijing government has agreed to pay wages to workers to halt all factory emissions during the Olympics.

These measures will be needed if athletes will compete. I could image that the opening ceremonies would be impossible to watch because the view on the other end of the track would be hidden in a haze of smog.

I could barely even see the newly constructed bird's nest from the top of the Ethnic Park in North Beijing. The air pollution obscured everything.

*A view of the Forbidden City in Beijing is obscured by the air pollution.

Disrespecting Mao Zedong

Silly shoes.

I almost didn't get to pay tribute to Mao Zedong, the former Chairman of the Peoples Republic of China.

All because of shoes I disrespected China's most notorious leader.

No sign or proclamation from a loud speaker spoke of a dress code outside his tomb.

As I walked along in a sea of people lined up around the building to pay tribute to Mao, a Chinese official grabbed my arm, forcing me out of the line.

Apparently, my brown, rubber Old Navy flip-flops were not up to dress code to visit Mao. My heart stopped as I pleaded with the official to let me through. He showed me a pair of extra shoes he had and offered them to me for $20 RMB.

They looked like they would fit a young child. I shook my head and clasped my hands together, lowering my head down.

"Please!" I said in English, aware of the fact he could not understand me.

Last fall I had read most of Mao's written works on communism for my Marxism class. Visiting his tomb to see his embalmed body was necessary for me to complete my quest to understand Mao's contributions to China.

I took out my student ID card and waved it in his face. After several minutes, he waved his hand and I pressed myself deep into the crowd (to hide my shoes from other officials).

I made it all the way through security. They yelled after me in Chinese, but I pretended to not understand.

I walked up the steps to the entry hall. A large white statue of Mao sat looking out over the hall with a strange sort of smile. At his feet were a pile of flowers.

A man walked up and placed a bouquet at Mao's feet. His face was titled toward the floor out of respect. He never turned his back on the statue.

Marble pillars led the way into his tomb. Two soldiers stood guard above a glass coffin.

Mao's face shone an eerie orange. His skin looked waxy and tight. His large stomach rose above the rest of his body.

Shrouded in glass, he seemed small compared to his words I had read a few months earlier.

Above his head were some Chinese characters. On his tomb was a sickle and hammer -- forever a communist.

I shuffled by, hoping Mao didn't mind my inappropriate foot ware.

I kept waiting for him to leap up and scold me. Of course, he didn't move an inch.

*A statue outside Mao's grave.

The tea seller

At just under five feet, my Chinese friend Joey, a chain smoker with tattoos, transformed herself into a professional tea seller.

The man standing behind the counter had no idea she is really a freelancer for various Chinese companies in Beijing.

Joey was not lying. I learned quickly that lying is merely part of the art of Chinese bargaining. Transforming an identity is merely part of the game.

Joey was on a mission to find me Yunnan tea as a gift for my grandmother.

Joey had guided my sister Grace and I to a tea shop in the city of Lijiang in Yunnan Province. A tourist mecca, Lijiang boasts the home of the Naxi people, one of China's 54 minorities.

The walls of the shop were lined with jars of various types of tea. The man invited us to sit and try some different selections.

He went to one of the jars, scooped out a handful and walked back to the counter. The bitter aroma of fresh tea hung in the air.

Joey picked up a cup of the dry tea leaves and ran her finger through each leaf to test the quality. She sniffed each cup carefully.

After several cups and selections, I decided on a special puer tea and a green tea. At the asking price of $500 RMB for both teas the bargaining began.

Joey smiled, the young man behind the counter smiled back. A few words were exchanged. Joey turned to me and said in English, "Eighty." I was startled and quickly agreed.

The tea was basically for free. The man packaged up the teas and we left. Outside I asked how she had gotten such a good price.

"She promised to come back later if he gave her a good price," Joey's cousin Michelle said. I laughed, amazed at her ability to get a good price.

It seemed that Joey had not only concealed her identity, but had sold herself for a good bargain.

*Joey stands in front of the Beijing sea.

The dreams are strange in Shangri la

Maybe the lack of oxygen, sleep or heat were the reason.

I can't explain why. My dreams were strange in Shangri la.

Images of Tibetan gods haunted my sleep, which seemed more like a trance.

I only remembered glimpses of the dream the next day.

The previous day, I visited Zhongdian monastery high up on a hill at the mouth of the valley. The original monastery was destroyed during the Cultural Revolution and rebuilt only recently.

Inside the monastery, images of grotesque Buddhas looked down from the walls. Some of the gods stood on top of naked human bodies. Others had human heads tied around their waists. Some reached out with long talons. The gods themselves were blue, green and red.

Tibetan Buddhism was different than the serene images of Buddha I had become familiar with in the rest of China.

The murals seemed more like ghosts than gods.

The ghosts followed me to bed. They danced around wildly as I slept. I've never had dreams so vivid and frightening.

Maybe the reason for my dreams were less scientific. The city has mythical roots according to many tourist brochures.

Shangri la, a mystical city in Tibetan Buddhism, may be the place of British writer James Hilton's novel Lost Horizon. In the novel, the people are nearly immortal and cut off from the outside world.

The next morning over breakfast, all of my friends shared similar experiences: Strange dreams and fitful sleep.

Listening to nearly extinct instruments

The wail of a woman screeching into a microphone made me cringe as I walked through Green Lake Park in Dali (Southwest China).

My sister Grace and I found it difficult to appreciate the traditional Chinese music performance in the park. Grace joined me for traveling in China all the way from the United States a week earlier.

The longer I listened the more I began to appreciate the woman's voice. The musical notes rose and fell completely opposite to the sequences I learned from piano lessons when I was in primary school.

Further on, old men were gathered under a pagoda near a coy pond, full of orange fish of all sizes. I recognized the instruments from a museum. The men strummed a traditional instrument called the erhu.

Off in a corner I spotted one of the Dai traditional instruments played by an old man. Some children played nearby, but many people walked by without a second glance.

The man blew into a Hulusi, a claranet-like instrument is made of a gourd and three hollow bamboo shafts containing free-beating reeds, according to the Connecticut College China Yunnan/Mekong Project.

The Hulusi almost became extinct during the Cultural Revolution.

During the Cultural Revolution under Mao Zedong, many musicians buried their traditional musical instruments in their backyards out of fear of getting arrested. Mao's policies sought to eradicate the parts of China's past to move toward modernization. Only after Mao died did they dig out the instruments and begin playing again, according to journalist Edward A. Gargan in his 2002 book "The River's Tale: A Year on the Mekong".

I sat and listened for awhile, enjoying the harmonious blending of the different sounds.

Mourning China's earthquake victims

Horns blared as I walked down the side of a mountain near the town of Dali in Yunnan Province, China.

The central Chinese government had declared three days of national mourning for the victims of the 7.8 earthquake that struck Northwest China last week.

That afternoon, everything in China came to a standstill as the nation mourned for the dead. The sound of the horns broke the silence of the mountain side. Workers in the fields below put down their work and stood for a few moments.

Even though I was in Hong Kong during the earthquake, I did not feel the quake. Some of my plans were disrupted for my trip to China. I tried to make my way toward the area.

I have been unable to access the earthquake area near Chengdu. Landslides, damaged roads and heavy rains made it impossible for me to head into the area. Internet access has been sporadic, making it difficult for me to post my progress while traveling in China.

The remote location of the earthquake has made it difficult for aid workers and the Chinese government to help victims.

For three days, the government banned all entertainment on television. I flipped channels to see news broadcast after news broadcast showing disturbing images of injured survivors and collapsed buildings.

The voice of one woman sobbed and spoke in broken Chinese. I asked my Chinese friend what was going on.

The woman was recounting how her husband (a teacher) had saved four children by shielding them with his own body, resulting in his death.

"It's very sad," my friend said.

How to help in Burma

Large barrels of water and sacks of rice were being stockpiled onto a large barge on the bank of the Yangon River in Myanmar on May 9.

"It doesn't look like enough, does it?" a man commented to me as we passed by.

On that morning, soldiers from the junta government in Myanmar (also known as Burma) were preparing to ship supplies to the Delta region.

I memorized the layout of the water barrels and continued onto the ferry across the river.

That day I walked around the town of Dalah, just across from Yangon. I saw people starving. Their homes were destroyed. No relief seemed to be in sight.

I passed out what little medicine I had smuggled into the country. I tried to give away some food discretely as the junta had prohibited foreigners from passing out aid.

Nine hours later I crossed the Yangon River back to Yangon.

The barge had not moved.

The supplies were in the same position as when I crossed earlier that morning.

Most of the soldiers were sleeping on the dock.

I wanted to scream. I had just seen thousands of people in desperate need of food and water. Relief was sitting on the other side of the river out of reach.

I have been out of Burma for nearly ten days now. I can not help but conclude that the junta government has little interest in actually helping the Burmese people.

The Myanmar government is currently requesting billions for reconstruction at a donor conference.

In my conversations with the Burmese people I found that giving monetary contributions to help the cyclone victims in Myanmar comes with a price -- the junta government has taken large cuts from aid in the past.

While in Burma after the cyclone I made several contacts who have recommended aid organizations that are able to place aid into directly into victims hands.

Based in Yangon, Gitameit Music Center has been working to distribute rice and other supplies to people in the delta region.

While the organization is a non-profit music center, Gitameit has been effective in reaching some of the hard hit areas as it is run by local volunteers.

The Web site has reports of the damage. Volunteers just conducted their seventh aid trip to areas that had not received aid two weeks after the storm.

Visit www.gitameit.com to see more about what the organization has been doing after the cyclone.

A week in Myanmar after the cyclone

Boy loses family in cyclone

De Mong San, at only 16 years old, witnessed the loss of several family members to Cyclone Nargis in a village only a few hours south of Yangon.

“I saw babies die,” De Mong said. He points to his chest to show how high the water rose. The area around his home is still flooded.

He estimates that around 2,000 people died in the village across from Yangon named Dalah and his small village to the south.

He sleeps on the ground without a blanket, using only his traditional longi dress for shelter.

“My home broken,” De Mong said.

He walks about 90 minutes every morning from his reconstructed home made out of debris south of Yangon to the capitol in search of work.

His family has received no aid from the government. Instead of waiting, De Mong San and his mother trek to Yangon to earn enough money for food.

Millions in Myanmar’s delta region (also known as Burma) face starvation as aid continues to trickle in at a slow pace.

De Mong boards the ferry with his mother from Dalah to Yangon for $50 kyat or $0.50 U.S. dollars.

His small family is lucky to live near Yangon to cross the Yangon River for access to basic food and supplies.

The cost of roofing nails in Yangon is around $40,000 kyat or $40 USD for 1 kg – more than many families can afford.

With more rain on the way, many like De Mong face bleak conditions without a proper roof and relief in sight.

Water shortages in Yangon

For five days after the storm, Yangon had no electricity and water.

Without electricity the people could not pump water into their homes.
Many collected rain water that fell from the roofs.

In the photo above, a man sells rain water for $5 U.S. dollars a gallon in near the city center in Yangon.

When I left Yangon on Saturday, some electricity had been restored. A man told me he believed the government turned on the electricity so people who be in favor of the referendum.
In disaster areas, the vote has been delayed until May 24.

I have no idea if what he told me is true.

"Today there will be no power," he said on Sunday, the day after the vote.

Orphans in Dalah, Myanmar

Yahoo news has posted two of my photos showing orphans in Dalah waiting for dinner.

Near dusk on Thursday, May 8, I was heading back toward the ferry connecting the village of Dalah to the capitol Yangon.

Not far ahead I heard the sound of children's voices. I walked further along and saw an entire line of children with cups, bowls and plastic bags in hand.

A man ran up to me.

"Hey you!" he yelled.

I was startled as he grabbed my wrist and brought me into the compound.

He pointed at the long line of children. I flinched as one man beat a child with a leather strap who had tried to come up to me.

I had never seen a child beaten like that before. (I asked later and found out that children are often struck with leather in schools.)

I asked a man next to me who these children were.

"No parents," he said. I asked if they were orphans from the cyclone. He nodded his head and took me to the front ofthe line.

Each face looked up to me with sad eyes. Some smiled for my camera. Others looked away toward the meal.

A large pot stood at the front of the line full of a brown soup. I did not know what was inside. Then I realized (and asked), this was the only meal these children would have that day.

I took several photos of the line, the food, the faces (The Associated Press has published three of them).

From the top of the school, Yangon's colonial buildings and high rise hotels can be seen where food supplies are plentiful.

Just across the Yangon River, people are starving because of high food prices. The price of rice to feed an average family costs about $3 USD. For a family that has lost everything, food is inaccessible.

*PHOTOS: 1)A man stirs the orphan's dinner at a school Thursday, May 8 at a school in Dalah, just across the Yangon River from Yangon in Myanmar. 2) Orphans line up for their daily meal at a school in Dalah Thursday, May 8.

Myanmar monks, citizens lead clean up

A Rope, machete, hand saw, two hands, two legs -- these are the tools Myanmar's citizens are using to clean up the aftermath of Cyclone Nargis.

The junta government has been slow to hand out aid and lend a hand in the clean up effort.

While the video below is not of high quality, it shows the primitive tools Myanmar's citizens have to clean up debris.



When I arrived in Yangon on Monday, May 5 (just 24 hours after the cyclone had passed), debris littered the streets. I thought I had entered a war zone.

Trees lay on top of houses, cars and buses. Entire roofs had been lifted off buildings. Billboards had been knocked over. Metal lay twisted on the ground.

That night I woke up to hear the sounds of wood chopping, dragging and sweeping. The next morning the streets were mostly cleared.

One man confirmed that he had worked all night to clear the roads around his home.

"No sleep," one Yangon resident said Tuesday. "The government does nothing. The people clean everything."

With little aid from the military, Yangon citizens were forced to reach into their own pockets for the clean up.

On Saturday May 10, a chainsaw in Yangon costs from $400 U.S. dollars to $150 USD, depending on quality. The shop owner said these were normal prices.

The price of a hand saw costs around $5.50 USD, making this option more affordable. A hammer costs $3 USD.

Prices in Yangon have skyrocketed since the disaster as the cyclone damaged factories and roads leading to the region.

Walking around Yangon and nearby Dalah, I could tell that only the government had $400 USD to spare for chainsaws.

But I did not see them start working until Wednesday.

No problems leaving Yangon

I returned to Hong Kong last night via Macau.

Thank you for your kind e-mails, prayers and comments.

Myanmar's security at the airport had no idea they were letting a journalist through. I hid my photos in my carry-on just in case.

The problem in Myanmar (also known as Burma) is not getting out, but getting in.

U.S. relief aid has just been authorized to enter the country.

Look for more photos, stories and insight into the crisis in Myanmar soon.

*Debris from Cyclone Nargis litters Myanmar's capitol of Yangon. A young boy stands in front of a fallen billboard Monday, May 5.

Safe in Myanmar

A quick update from Myanmar (also known as Burma). I am safe. There is plenty of food and water, but electricity is out almost everywhere.

For more on what's happening over here, check out the New York Times or the BBC's coverage.

Stuck in Bangkok: Cyclone Nargis hits Yangon

My heart jumped a little when the flight attendant made an announcement.

"The government has shut down Yangon airport," the announcement said.

Immediately, people began murmuring about a possible political situation.

Then the news reports started coming in.

A cyclone inflicted major damage on Yangon, Myanmar's capitol. Some people on my flight had been delayed for days.

The actual situation is unknown. If the city is as badly damaged as the media reports, then I plan to forgo my tourist plans and lend a hand.

I might not even make it to Yangon if things are as bad as the media has reported. Until then, I will remain in Bangkok.

Off to Myanmar

I thought about going to Myanmar (Burma) for a long time.

Is it ethical? Is it safe? Is it sane?

I decided that as a recent journalism graduate, I had to visit at least one difficult country before I returned to the United States.

I planned on visiting Tibet before the March riots shut it down. Instead, I decided to tackle Burma.

My first stop is Yangon, then I will make my way up to Mandalay.

I will not be able to access my blog until May 11. The Burmese government has a tight hold over the Internet.

Until then read more about Myanmar here.

59 hours in Bangkok

An English map is not very helpful in Thailand.

After walking for 35 or 45 minutes along Ayutthaya Road, I began to realize that the last five people I had asked for directions had no idea what I was saying.

I could not find where I was on the map. The heat beat down. My stomach growled with hunger.

A motorcycle pulled up and a man yelled over to me. I showed him my map.

At that point I realized: Most Thai people can't read roman characters.

He said to me, "No money." He pointed to himself and the road. I backed away. I was terrified.

Me? Ride on the back of a motorcycle? No way.

But I had no other choice. I tucked my ankle length skirt between my legs and jumped on the back, holding on for dear life.

He took me to some police officers who informed me that the nearest station was about 4 km away.

For $130 Baht he offered to take me to my destination, the weekend market at Mo Chit.

I had no other choice. I was exhausted. He promised to go slow. Slower than the other vehicles, but still relatively fast.

Temples, houses, businesses and canals blew by as I held on for dear life.

When I arrived in Mo Chit, my hair was a mess, my heart was no longer racing and my knuckles were still white.

I put a hand to my chest and took a deep breath. The motorcycle driver laughed, and laughed until he disappeared back into Bangkok's traffic.

The food crisis: Inside a Filipino home

Even in the dark I could tell the house was humble.

A woman stood cooking before an open fire outside of the home. A pile of different types of wood were stacked nearby. Children played nearby. A woman stood fixing her bike.

Poverty screamed at me from everywhere.

A friendly 20-year-old Filipino named Patrick had invited me to meet his family. I had asked the family I was staying with in Lucap (near Alaminos or 100 Islands National Park) if Patrick was a good guy. They said I would be safe to go with him.

While the family is very poor, they are rich in family. The entire Nisperos family lives within one block of each other, including uncles, grandparents, brothers and sisters.

The family invited me in and sat me down at the dinner table in front of a pile of egg plant, rice and shrimp. I was overwhelmed by their generosity.

"Make yourself at home," one of Patrick's uncles told me. "Act natural."

I have found Filipinos are the most hospitable people in the world. Although this family did not have much to give, they still freely offered me an entire meal meant for at least four people.

First, I washed my hand in a jug of water. I was told to use my right hand to eat.

The egg plant was fried. I was instructed to dip the vegetable into a sauce made of salted fish and tomatoes. Then I had to scoop the rice along with the egg plant in one hand.

While I ate Aunt Ceceila told me about the conditions of her family.

"This family is very poor, but it is rich in family," she said. I agreed. All around me were Aunts, Uncles, cousins eager to help me learn about their culture and family.

We discussed the conditions of Filipinos in Hong Kong. We both agreed that Hong Kong people mistreated Filipinos.

I could hardly shove down the pile of high quality rice in front of me. They had prepared the very best for me.

I listened as she explained the impact of the rising cost of rice. The family had to pay higher prices

From my conversations with people, I have discovered that the price of rice has risen in the Philippines from about $20 pisos (pronounced pesos) to $30 -- an increase that has mainly impacted the poor.

As I traveled to Lucap by bus I noticed the abundance of rice in the fields. I could not understand why rice cost so much in the Philippines when there was so much of it.

From my informal interviews with the locals I have come to understand these factors:

• High population growth due to a lack of family planning (impact of Catholicism)
• Government corruption
• Rice exports and imports that earn money for a select few

I have not interviewed official sources, but this is the view of the Filipino people on why the price of rice is so high.

Back in the Nisperos home I found I could not finish the massive plate of rice, but I managed to eat all of the egg plant and shrimp.

Riding the Jeepney

Twenty minutes had passed. My patience was starting to wear thin.

I was stuck outside of Baguio City at Tam-awan Village.

The rain poured down in a torrent. I waved for taxis flying by. No one stopped.

Finally, I turned to a local and asked where I could find the jeepneys to town (The Philippines' unofficial public transportation system).

A five minute walk up the road toward town was the answer.

I hiked up in the rain. Although I was surrounded by poorly built houses on the muddy hills, I found the view beautiful. Dark and white clouds were in the distance. I could just make out the South China Sea.

I heard a diesel engine coming from behind. I turned. Nope. Just a truck full of garbage.

I kept trudging on. The rain lightened. I began to enjoy the view more and more.

I crossed the road to look at a hill full of colorful slum houses. I reached for my camera. Suddenly, I heard a rumble from behind. A jeepney was trudging up the hill.

I ran out into the road. It couldn't miss me. The driver came to a stop and I hopped into the back next to an old man.

I passed up the $7.50 piso fare and sighed with my camera still in hand. I never did get to snap that photo.

Swimming with sharks

Alone in the middle of a corral reef I popped my head up to readjust my mask. Water had almost completely filled the goggles I had rented for the day.

At least 10 islands came into my view.

While traveling in the Philippines, I decided to celebrate my college graduation with a trip to Alaminos' 100 Islands National Park.

The boatman, Rody, I had hired for the day was waiting in his boat "Mercy" at a make-shift dock not too far away. (See his contact details below.)

I fixed my mask and plunged back under the warm water.

Different types of colorful corral and fish met my eyes. I looked up and saw something gray and quick move in the distance just out of my view. I looked again. A small grey reef shark was swimming not 20 yards away from me.

I fought to stay calm. I was not too far from Corral Island. I swam calmly toward it.

I sat on the island completely alone for about 20 minutes. I was a 200 yard swim from the boat and the platform.

I knew the shark was not dangerous. Still, a shark is a shark.

I gathered my courage and headed out to snorkle one more time. The reef was too incredible to ignore.

About 20 minutes later, I felt safe and calm. No sharks were in sight, until I looked to my right.

I saw a larger reef shark swimming around a school of fish. I looked to my left and saw another one circling not too far from me.

My heart jumped, but I remained calm. The sharks were circling the fish. I decided not to get in the way of lunch and turned to swim away. I looked back a couple of time, but saw nothing but blue ocean.

On my way, I looked down and saw at least 20 giant clams on the bottom. I wanted to linger, but felt it was better to get out of the water. I could handle one shark, not two, even if they were harmless.

I swam safely to the dock, a little winded. The swim seemed longer than the first time I had done it. Maybe I wasn't as calm as I thought I was.

TRAVEL RECOMMENDATION

I had met Rody by chance through his nephew Marlin, a motto taxi man. (The easiest way to get around in the Philippines is to hire a motto.)

I decided to travel the Philippines without a guide book, completely alone. I came in with no set itinerary.

The best part about having no set plans is the interaction with the locals. I am dependent on them.

That's how I met Rody. Taking a five hour bus from Manila to Alaminos, I arrived not knowing where to stay, the price range or where the tourist information center was.

The minute I exited a group of motto-drivers flocked to me. One young man with good English asked me if I wanted to go to the islands.

For $80 pisos ($2 USD), he agreed to help me find a hotel, a boatman and something to eat. I hopped on board a little apprehensive. I had heard stories of tourists who never returned after taxi rides.

Marlin seemed honest. He spoke directly to me without looking shifty or apprehensive.

He told me he was taking me to his uncle who was a boatman.

For $800 pisos (the going rate) I hired Rody. I rented snorkel equipment from a man named Boots at Lucap park for $250 pisos.

The hotel had a bucket shower, but was half the price of any other room in town at $500 pisos. The family looked after my safety and helped me to get to know the locals.

CONTACT RODY FOR A DAY OF ISLAND HOPPING AT:

Rodolfo "Rody" Tuazon. Lucap Blvd. City of Alaminos, Pangasinan. PHONE: 639289838393

Manila's slums

Free housing, free electricity and no taxes -- That's how migrants living in Manila's slums live.

No plumbing, little policing and very few jobs also make up the life of squatters living in Manila.

Walking through the streets, I could not help but be drawn to the slum areas. People slept on the streets.

A monument commemorating the colonial tie between Spanish Mexico and the Philippines was obscured by hanging laundry.

Later that day, I was walking along the streets with a Filipino named Michelle who I had met a few hours earlier.

Michelle had graduated from college a year ago with a degree in physics, and was working on passing her exit exams before getting a job.

Unlike many Filipinos, Michelle explained that she wanted to stay in her country rather than work abroad.

In the United States, many Filipino women work as nurses, housekeepers and an assortment of other jobs.

Michelle had dedicated her life to making the Philippines better by becoming a teacher.

As we were walking I noticed a few children sitting on the street. I told her it broke my heart to see the children in the street.

"That is how desperate our situation is here," Michelle told me. She began to tell me of her experience in the slums.

Michelle had been out walking when she saw a little boy who covered in fifth and looked very hungry.

He had asked her for money. She decided to buy him lunch instead.

She explained that buying the lunch was in vain as a group of big boys came and stole the little boy's lunch.

"They beat him," she said. Her eyes were a little glassy.

I asked her what she said.

"Nothing. They were very big," she said.

I could hear the pain in her voice and understood why she could not leave. She cared too much.

Adventuring in the Philippines

I'm currently traveling through the Philippines without an itinerary, taking things as they come.

Manila is large, crowded, insane, but full of incredibly nice people. I've already made several friends.

Now I'm in 100 islands for a day at the beach.

Expect more posts soon. The Internet access is sporadic.

Chinese voices of moderation on Tibet

Conversation bounced around the table, a mix of Mandrin, Cantonese and English at Jashan, an Indian restaurant on Hong Kong Island in SoHo.

Over rounds of mango lassi, a yogurt drink with mango juice, the Chinese mainland students all around me were speaking excitedly in Chinese.

I watched their faces trying to figure out what they were talking about. Then one of the students turned to me and asked,

"Have you heard about the 'heart' China name changes on MSN?"

For me, the most embarrassing part of being an American abroad has to be when a local asks questions about a recent news event -- and I have no idea what they are talking about.

Even though I read the local newspapers, the New York Times online and other news outlets daily, I still miss out on some key events once in awhile.

I replied politely that I did not.

The students informed me (and I confirmed through the South China Morning Post) that overnight millions of Chinese changed their MSN instant messaging names by adding a heart and the word China.

This latest round of nationalism is in response to world-wide protest about the Olympics as the torch circles the world.

I listened as the students around the table, who wished to remain unnamed, debated with the MSN name changes.

One student explained how she argued with her boyfriend because she thought it was silly. While she does not believe in Tibetan independence, she also does not believe in showing nationalism so blatantly.

Another student expressed concern over the name changes. He told me he found the name changes unhelpful.

"The two sides need to listen to one another," he said.

I could not agree more. The entire table discussed how both sides do not understand each other, leading to conflict. (A Chinese student who stood up for moderation at Duke University received death threats recently.)

Heated rhetoric between the Chinese government and what seems to be the rest of the world (Japan criticized China today), has not improved Tibetan human rights. The Chinese are not listening. The west is not listening.

Voices of moderation need to stand up and bring China and the West to the table. Finger pointing through the media is not changing the situation.

* Image taken from MSN China urges users to 'love' Beijing Olympics.

Discovery of the week: Novelist Gao Xingjian

Novelist Gao Xingjian has made "the list."

I have been compiling a post college graduation reading list for all the books I have discovered in the past five years.

Soul Mountain and One Man's Bible are two of his novels that I plan to read.

The 2000 Nobel Prize in Literature novelist, dramatist, literary critic, poet, painter and stage and film director has a fascinating life story. Born in Ganzhou China in the 1940s, he was sent to work in the countryside during the Cultural Revolution.

He has been recognized by the Swedish Academy for his "universal validity, bitter insights and linguistic ingenuity."

I'm hoping that means he translates well into English.

The next stage: Traveling alone

You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain;

I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care.

As the peach blossom which flows downstream and is gone into the unknown,

I have a world apart that is not among men.

-Li Po

Li Po, a Chinese poet from the 8th century, captures the beauty of solitude.

I stumbled across this poem while researching a paper on 18th century Chinese and English gardens.

One week from now I will be traveling alone in Thailand and Myanmar (Burma). Of the two-and-a-half weeks I will travel, at least five of those days will be spent in solitude.

Finally, I have time to read, to think, to write, to be. No obligations. No deadlines. Just being free of care.

I will venture into the unknown. I will still be "among men" (as Li Po wrote) on my trip. Yet I will be reflecting on life as a college graduate. Yep, I finish my undergraduate education as soon as I hand in three more papers.

Another stage of life is beginning.

(Read more of Li Po's poems here.)

Is the media wrong about Tibet?

AS PRINTED IN THE WHITWORTHIAN:

Unfair, biased, one-sided, sensational, inaccurate.

My mainland Chinese classmates have used those words to depict American (and European) media coverage of the Tibetan riots in March.

As the world erupts in protest over Tibet, I can't help but pause and take a closer look. Read more from Jessica about Tibet here.

My Chinese classmates are not the only ones with a negative view of western media coverage.

During my post-graduate Cross-Cultural Negotiation class two weeks ago, the professor played this You Tube video made by an overseas Chinese student about Tibet:



Some words popped into my head: Nationalistic, amateurish, sensational, inaccurate and unfair. Some of the points I could agree with, but other parts seemed too dramatic.

My classmates had a different reaction. Applause erupted from the classroom when the video ended. Some students even stood up.

As the room quieted, all eyes fell on me – the only non-Chinese student in the class. The professor intervened and asked us to analyze the video.

Almost every student agreed that the video was not only 100 percent true, but very convincing. I tried to put aside my skepticism and listen.

One student stood and explained a point of view I had not heard before:

• Tibet has been part of China for almost a thousand years starting in the Yuan Dynasty in the 13th century (when Genghis Khan was conquering the world). Many Chinese point out this is before many nations critical of China were even founded.


• The Tibetan struggle for independence is part of a long separation movement to splinter China.


• The Dalai Lama is a terrorist who threatens the national security of China.


• China spends millions of dollars building Tibet's infrastructure every year.

Even I have to admit that China's influence on Tibet has not been all bad. Before the Chinese intervened during the 1930s, Tibet was a slave society. (Well, slavery was also in China during this time.)

When I told my friends I wanted to travel to Tibet when it opened in May, they warned me to not go. (It turns out it won't be open in time before I return to the Untied States.)

"You might be harmed by the terrorists," one of my friends told me. I was incredulous. Terrorists?

The issue of national security is what legitimates China's brutal crackdown on the riots. In fact, my friends found that China's response was inadequate and should have been harsher.

To me it's clear that both sides do not believe each other. The current rhetoric in western media is not changing China's actions toward Tibet. Instead, the chaos is only creating a larger disconnect. No one is listening to each other.

While I do not believe everything that comes form the mouth of the Chinese media or government, I have come to recognize that even the western media can be unfair to China. I'm not going to spend the rest of this article discrediting Chinese claims about Tibet.

Yes, Tibetans are being treated unfairly. But this is an issue that plagues all of China.

Han Chinese culture, the dominate ethnicity in China, dominates the landscape. All ethnic minorities, including Tibetans, are experiencing a breakdown of culture as mainstream Chinese culture stifles them.

Beijing's policy has been to assimilate non-Han people into Chinese culture. The result is that most of these minorities have lost some of their heritage.

Journalist Edward A. Gargan wrote in his 2002 book "The River’s Tale: A Year on the Mekong":

“Once a year, in the spring, China's rubber stamp parliament allows a few delegates decked out in the colorful costumes of near-extinct ethnic peoples into the Great Hall of the People. Smiles are bountiful, Chinese television cameras hover lovingly over the panoply of diversity, and when the parliament ends its theater, the museum doors, so to speak, close for another year.”

Gargan, who lived in Asia for 20 years, travels though Southwest China, which houses most of China's over 40 different minorities. He chronicles the demise of these distinct cultures due toBeijing's policies.

One mainlander, Michelle, told me that she believes the Chinese government has helped the ethnic people to raise their standard of living. She said she did not know much about these people's culture.

I have found that most Chinese look at the central government's display of ethnic people once a year and assume all is well.

Yet most ethnic minorities standard of living is below the Han Chinese. This disparity in wealth often creates frustration within these communities, just like in Tibet.

To me, Tibet is part of this narrative: The loss of unique cultures through assimilation.

In my eyes, until the world decides to stand up for all of China's ethnic minorities, the media's coverage of Tibet will continue to be incomplete.

Biking in the Hue countryside

Hopping on a bike rented for less than $1 USD, I had no idea where I would end up that day ...

Read more about my bike ride through the Hue countryside here.

Remnants of the war

Last week, Peter from Santa Cruz asked:

Question: Do you see visible damage from the war, or is everything rebuilt? Are there barracks style buildings, etc. left over from that time period?

The answer to your question is both yes and no. The "visible" damage from the war is more discreet. Remnants from that period dot the landscape. These remnants have faded into the background.

Here is a slide show of my trip to the old Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) where U.S. bombs rained down constantly starting in 1968 to force the Northern government to peace talks. The government in Hanoi started rebuilding historically important sites, like the DMZ, in 2002.

I only visited two major cities in Vietnam: Saigon* in the south and Hue in central Vietnam.

Saigon has boomed in recent years. The city's bustling congestion and make-shift housing reflect this growth.

Hue (a world heritage site) is the cultural center of Vietnam, hosting the Imperial City where Emperor Bao Dai lived until he abdicated his throne to the Viet Minh in 1949.

In both cities I saw the lingering effects of war.

The airport
When flying into Ho Chi Minh's main airport, the layout reflected a military style air field. The buildings were built low to the ground. Several concrete hangars remained in place, reminding me of the layout of U.S. military bases I have seen in Southern California.

I do not know if those hangars were from the Vietnam War, but they looked old enough.

Agent Orange
I saw disfigured people all over Saigon. People with humps on their backs, mangled arms and other deformities most likely were the sons and daughters of civilians and soldiers exposed to the chemical Agent Orange used by the United States as a defoliant.

At the War Remnants Museum in Saigon, an entire exhibit showed the lasting effects of the war including fetuses with horrible deformities.

Outside of the museum, many old men with missing legs beg on the streets. These men are most likely the victims of mine explosions. Mines still litter the countryside in Vietnam, left over from decades of war.

I saw Vietnamese signs throughout the DMZ zone warning locals to watch out for unexploded munitions and mines. This remains a threat in parts of Vietnam to this day.

Bomb craters
When walking through the Viet Minh tunnels just north of the DMZ zone, our guide pointed out several large craters in the ground. When restoring the tunnels, the government had left some of the craters to show the severity of the bombing.

Other than that area, I did not notice any other remnants. I was told by a local that some damage can still be seen off the main highway in the more rural areas.

The Imperial City
Inside the Imperial City in Hue, the Citadel where the Nguyen dynasty lived until abdicating the throne to Ho Chi Minh in 1949, is undergoing major renovation.

Parts of the city (built in 1802) lay in ruins -- left over from the Tet Offensive in 1968. During the Offensive, the city was mortared and rocketed by the Northern Army.

Parts of the city still lie in ruins, making exploration very interesting.

Have any questions about my trip to Vietnam? Write a comment or send an e-mail to jdavis08@gmail.com. Check back for more photos soon.

*I call Ho Chi Minh Saigon, because that is what all the locals call the city.

Saigon to Hue: The 18-hour journey

Cramped into a six-person sleeper, I embarked on an 18-hour express train ride from Saigon to Hue.

Easter in Saigon

With a loud bang, the service started. Large drums called people from around Le Lai Street in Ho Chi Minh City to worship.

South Vietnam hosts many Catholic churches, a remnant of French colonialism. I was the only foreigner in the church. The church looked more like the grand cathedrals of Europe rather than a church in the heart of one of Vietnam's largest cities.

Although Vietnam is run by a communist party, the Catholic population in South Vietnam still exists. I had wandered to this church on Easter eve with the hope of finding information about Easter services on Sunday.

I walked into the church and sat down, taking in the stained glass windows, the European looking saints and the white Jesus figure on the cross over the altar. I tried to ignore the strangeness of Vietnamese people bowing and praying before a white Jesus.

The drums sounded and people filed in. A young boy dressed in white robes handed me a candle. I was stuck. The lights went out, candles were lit. The entire church was filled with the songs of Vietnamese people mourning the death of Jesus.

The service was completely in Vietnamese. Yet, two of the songs held a familiar word: Hallelujah. I smiled and sang along when I could. The Vietnamese people around me smiled and began to relax. Some of the instruments seemed foreign to me, but mainly the service used an organ. The melodious sound of the Vietnamese tonal language coupled with the music filled the large dome.

The next day I went to two services. One in the west side of Ho Chi Minh and one in the Notre Dame Cathedral. The first service was also in Vietnamese. This time my friend Adelaide accompanied me. I decided to sit down and follow the service of standing, kneeling, praying, singing. I tried to mimic the Vietnamese liturgy, but it was very difficult.

Then we took a taxi across town to the Notre Dame Cathedral made as a replica of the famous French church. While the rose glass window was missing, the church was impressive. The service was surprisingly in English. This time many foreigners were there, more than the locals.

I followed the scripture readings, the sermon and felt the familiarity of the liturgy of the Vietnamese services. I was hearing the same readings in two different languages.

Suddenly, the choir chimed in with an organ singing Handel's Messiah. The chorus filled the entire church, echoing off the blond, brown and black haired people sitting all around me.

Check back for photos after I return to Hong Kong on Tuesday.

Befriending a Vietnam veteran

A grenade explosion during the Vietnam War cost him his hearing, but spared his life.

Thanh, now 51, sits on a street-side restaurant on Co Giang Street in Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), a survivor of the bitter conflict around this city over thirty years ago. He sits just two blocks down from the main tourist drag, out of sight from foreign eyes.

I met Thanh while looking for dinner on the streets. He caught my attention by pointing to the food, smiling a large grin and pointing two thumbs up. I turned to my friends and we agreed to sit down and try the food.
The chicken and rice were delicious (and cheap).

We did not realize that Thanh was deaf, until he told his story. My friends and I sat and "talked" for several hours with a white board, a note pad and our hands.

I told him I was an American and to my surprise he gave a thumbs up. He mimed an airplane, two towers, the numbers 9-11 with his fingers. He put a finger down from eyes to show tears. Sadness. Then he mimiced a beard. Osama Bin Laden. He pointed two thumbs down.

He made the sign for America and pointed two thumbs up. Thanh, a veteran of a war against Americans, told me he supported America and felt bad about 9-11.

Seated across from Thanh were two women, an old woman named Hoang and a young girl named Hoa (flower). Hoa lost her hearing when she was a little girl after falling onto the floor. She now washes clothes to support her young daughter. Hoa is only one year younger than me, yet she already supports a child while studying sign language.

While I can not be one hundred percent sure that I completely understood, Thanh mimed to me that he is one of 20,000 or more deaf people in the city.

Thanh acts as uncle, father and brother to the deaf in Saigon. The community seems to revolve around him. As we sit and talk with our hands, at least 20 deaf people rode by, some stopped to join in on the conversation while others continued on.

He put his hands together after pointing to the other deaf people around him.

I understood. They were family. Thanh showed me that everyone supports each other. While Hoa and her daughter have a room to sleep in, Hoang, 62, does not always have a place to sleep or money to buy food.

Thanh works in construction, and by 10 p.m. he motioned that he had to sleep. He would be up at dawn to work for a very low wage. A wage that barely covers the cost of living in Saigon.

Although Ho Chi Minh has a growing economy, many people remain in deep poverty. Vietnam is a communist country, reunited after Southern Vietnam fell to North Vietnam in 1975. But capitalism is thriving and emerging in the south.

While traveling through the city I asked many of the peddlers where they were from. Most of them responded with Ha Noi. Many people are relocating to the south to find work. A large labor pool leaves many people open for exploitation, making it difficult for people like Hoang, Hoa and Thanh to survive.

When Thanh finished telling about the difficulty of living on the street, I made a tear motion with my finger. He smiled and put his hands together. Friends. I put my hands together. An American and a deaf Vietnamese veteran soldier, friends.

Grapefruit, tea and conversation in rural Hue

Vi wakes up before dawn every morning to make sure she can ride her bike 30 minutes to school.

School starts at 7 a.m. for Vi, a student at the main university in Hue, Central Vietnam.

For her parents, the day starts even earlier. Vi's parents are farmers, working hard day after day to send their second oldest daughter to college.

In Vietnam, the cost of going to school is about $50 U.S. per month. The average salary for a family in rural Hue is the same -- about $50 U.S.

The Vietnamese government does not tax its people -- 70 percent of which are involved in agriculture. Not many scholarships or grants are available to help students with their fees.

Vi explained that her parents sacrifice a lot to make sure she can fulfill her dream of becoming a translator.

"I respect my parents very much," Vi said. For her, family is the most important part of life.

"Without family, a person cannot survive," she said.

Vi studies linguistics, and has hopes to be a translator.

My friends and I found Vi during a bike ride through the countryside.

Surrounded by green of rice fields, I pedaled my bike as slowly as I could. The quiet rice fields penetrate all other noise, including the occasional motto bike that goes by.

The Perfume River flows, families sit in their homes, men and women work in the fields.

My friend Adelaide had been leading Sunny and I on a pagoda tour of the countryside outside of Hue when a local approached her -- Vi's mother.

She offered to take us to the ruins of a temple and then to her home for food, tea and to meet her family.

I was sweaty, hot and tired from the long bike ride. We agreed to follow her.

Their home was typical of most Vietnamese homes -- a bright color on the walls, wooden doors, song birds in cages on the porch.

Vi's mother served us grapefruit and tea, all grown from their garden.

Vi is thin -- too thin. I was thankful for the grapefruit, realizing how much that one fruit meant to this family.

Over tea we discussed Vietnam. I realized that Vi is a very special person.

Her English was absolutely perfect. She had no detectable accent. She understood every word I said. She was engaging, intelligent and thoughtful.

She works hard in school, realizing that one day she will have to go and work in Saigon. With sadness she admits that she will have to leave her family one day.

She motions around. "I would rather be here, at home."

Like many Vietnamese, she will most likely move to Ho Chi Minh city in the south for a job. The economy there has been growing rapidly over the past few years generating many jobs.

But Vi says she will not stay in the city.

"I want to come back," she said.

I told her that I want to be a journalist when I finish school. I told her that journalists need translators. We agreed that maybe one day we would work together.

I hope that one day I will return to the countryside of Hue, to Vi's beautiful home.

Any questions about Vietnam? Send me a comment or an e-mail and I will do my best to find an answer while I am traveling.

Surviving the streets in Ho Chi Minh

Slowly and steady. The secret to surviving the streets of Ho Chi Minh (Saigon) is to walk at a steady pace no matter what.

At rush hour hundreds of Vietnamese men and women hit the streets on little motor bikes called cyclos. For foreigners, the instinct to run across the street or avoid oncoming traffic can mean a horrendous accident.

Against all reason, the key to making it safely through the mangled mess of cars, cyclos and bicycles in Vietnam's busiest city is to let the Vietnamese avoid you.

A taxi lifted up on top of a cement median served as a reminder to me of what could happen if I did not pay close attention to my surroundings.

Failing to look both ways can be fatal. I had to learn the hard way that lanes for traffic mean almost nothing here. Cyclos will take the easiest way through traffic, even if that means riding against it.

The other key to surviving is to simply ask a local. Finding anything in Ho Chi Minh can be difficult. The streets are well marked, but the alley ways where all the cheap food and accommodation are located can be very hard to find.

When looking for a guest house to stay in over Easter, I became hopelessly lost. It was dark and the streets were jammed packed with people. My friends and I decided to ask a local for directions. I showed two women the name of the place and the address. All of a sudden, two men came over, looked at the directions, got on motorbikes and drove away.

I thought, okay, well apparently they could not help us. I could not have been more wrong.

Fifteen minutes later, the men circled back and lead us to the guest house. One of the men took us directly to the doorstep.

He circled around, gave us a wave and drove away.

Look for more on traveling by train for 18 hours to Hue near the DMZ zone soon.

Out of Tibet, an eerie silence

An eerie silence seems to be coming out of Tibet. A silence I have heard before.

All the news reports I've read have been inconclusive, unsure, unclear about what has been going on in the Tibetan capitol of Lhasa the last few days.

On Monday, Tibetan monks began protesting in the middle of Lhasa. Some reports claim civilians joined in the riots after Chinese police began beating the monks. According to reports, as many as 10 to 100 people have been killed in the riots.

Some reports claim the Tibetan monks started the violence, others claim it was the Chinese.

No one seems to know exactly what is going on in Lhasa (or if they do, they are not letting the news out). The pending Olympics seem to be protecting the protesters from an overly harsh crackdown by the central Chinese government.

But I've heard this silence before. Not in Asia, but in Washington.

I was sitting in my school cafeteria with a friend -- a friend who told me a story and forbid me from sharing it. He was afraid the Chinese government would arrest him when he returned to China.

My friend, a Tibetan, was studying in the United States. His name I will not share. He told me, at length, of his struggle to keep his identity as a Tibetan. Of the unfair way the Chinese took advantage of his country.

He mourned over the loss of friends. He spoke angrily against the Chinese government, the Chinese people for squashing his culture.

I asked him if I could write an article about what he had shared with me. He forbade me.

"I told my story to you, so you know what is happening to the Tibetan people," he told me. I have not forgotten those words.

My friend's silence speaks louder to me now as the Tibetan people cry out to the world through protest. A protest muffled by exaggerated accounts, unknown numbers and denial.

The Tim Tam Slam

One evening I sat down with three friends in the International House at the Chinese University of Hong Kong.

In front of us stood four mugs and a plastic container full of "naughty" biscuits, also known as Tim Tams.

Tim Tams, a biscuit with chocolate cream coated in more chocolate, alone are not impressive. With a hot drink, they transform into the Tim Tam Slam.

Studying in Hong Kong, an international city, has opened doors to new cultures. Australians Sunny and Adelaide showed a Canadian and myself how to eat dessert Aussie style:




*Dancing and singing: Adelaide. Washing dishes: Rebecca. Around the table: Adelaide (Australian instructor/mad dancer), Rebecca (Canadian), Jessica (me), and Sunny (Australian).

**Produced by Sunny Ho.

Inside a rural school

Missing Kakwang

I miss Kakwang. The rural school made quite an impression on me.

One week after my trip to Shantou and I can't get the place out of my mind. (Read more here.)

Most of my other posts have been strictly stories or anecdotes about my travels. Every time I sit down to write about my three-day trip to mainland China, words will simply not come to me. (See a slide show here.)

One girl named Shirley asked me on my first night, "What do you do on holiday?"

I listed a litany of responses, reading, going to the beach, writing, swimming. I asked what she did.

She looked down.

"I work."

I gulped. For these students, work is part of their life. Although they are poor, I would not say they are unhappy. With each interaction I saw that these students were generally happy and content with their lives.

Yet I could not get over how poor this school appeared.

At Kakwang I experienced the disparity of wealth in China. Standing on the balcony of my room at the school, I could see the city of Shantou across the harbor. The night lights of the high rises reminded me of Hong Kong.

Turning around to go back into my room, a stark disparity stared me right in the face. The room was very clean, yet some effort had been made to make it look that way. The walls were white washed (meaning if I happened to brush by the wall white chalk would blanket my clothes). A closer looks showed the white wash covered up a layer of grime.

The toilette ... well I've uploaded a picture so you can understand how basic the amenities were. That bucket in the picture is for manual flushing.

The dirt did not bother me. I found the bed comfortable (even though there was mildew on the bottom of the pillow).

Grime covered most of Kakwang and other buildings around Shantou. I believe the black layer on most buildings comes from soot. (Most of China's power comes from burning coal.)

The classrooms were just as stark as the bedrooms. Sheets hanging over the windows kept the sun from overheating the room. The windows did not close well, creating a nice draft of air into the room. The desks look banged up, but they work nicely.

The chalk boards seemed new and worked well. Buckets of chalk were available for use. Most of the students had a Chinese-English dictionary or at least they shared.

What most surprised me was the mid-afternoon nap each student took after lunch. I had a full two hours to explore around the school (I'll write more on that later).

Outside of class, I was surprised at how well our hosts fed us. I felt a little guilty when I asked one of the students what they usually ate. Congee (rice porridge), bread and fish -- a very different meal from the shrimp, fish, spinach, bean curd, squid, fish ball soup, and other dishes I was served three times a day.

*Photos from top to bottom: 1) A student sits in a classroom at Kakwang Professional Academy in Shantou, China. 2) A typical squat toilette.

And the winner is ...

In spite of the majority of voters wanting me to go to Manilla, I had to let my wallet guide my decision.

Vietnam will host my next set of adventures from March 17-25. Because I will be traveling for only eight days, I will not be bringing my laptop. Instead I will be hunting out Internet cafes to type out and publish my blogs.

Vietnam holds a special place in my heart. In my extended family, the Babcocks, adopted a Vietnamese boy several years ago. Henry is a wonderful son to them, cousin to me and friend to all. I don't think of him as anything other than family. Now I will be exploring his birthplace with two Australians (both Anthropology students).

The trip will begin in Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon). I will hopefully explore the Delta and other parts of the city.

Then I will travel up toward Hue and the DMZ zone. There I hope to explore tunnels created by the Viet Minh and North Vietnamese Army during the Vietnam War (also known as the Second Indochina War and the American War). Around Hue, I also hope to see how local villages have rebuilt themselves thirty years after the end of the war.

Not all of my adventures will center on America's involvement in Vietnam. On Easter Sunday, I will most likely attend a Catholic Church since most Christians in Vietnam are Catholic.

E-mail or post comments on any questions you want me to explore while I am in Vietnam. I am only there for eight days, but I will do my best to find answers.

Happy Angel

Looking up words in the dictionary was her quiet response.

A young girl with a round face, glasses and slumped shoulders responded differently to my question about hobbies than any other student in the class.

Her English name is Happy Angel. Her Chinese name I never could quite understand. When I asked her to write it down, she wrote it in Chinese, making it unintelligible to me.

Happy Angel taught me so much while I taught English for one day at the Kakwang Professional Academy in Shantou March 1.

Happy Angel and many of her friends are the sons and daughters of farm laborers and house workers.

She explained to me that she only sees her family once a year during Chinese New Year. Her job is to do well in school and find a good job after graduation.

The English teacher, known by the students as Mr. Ho at Kakwang, explained that many students will not go on to the university. Most will land a job in business.

"It is hard for college graduates to find a job," he said.

I pressed him to explain.

"Their expectations are too high," he said. I understood.

These graduates expected high pay, a nice office, prestige for labor that could easily be replaced by someone due to the competitive job market in China's growing economy. The simple fact is these graduates have a hard time finding a job because so many other people are willing to work the same job for much less money, at least in Shantou. (Read more about Shantou here.)

But Happy Angel seemed different than the other students I spoke with over the three days I spent at her school.

She had an insatiable curiosity about the world outside her rural school. She hungrily ate up the vocabulary I fed to her. She willing taught me Mandarin words as well. (She was far better at memorization of new words.)

Happy Angel wants to study English in the United States one day. Like most of the students who graduate from the professional academy, she will most likely work in China's business sector. A large part of me hopes she is able to fulfill her dream.

Part of me can't help but be sadly skeptical. Kakwang is a very rural school. There will not be any money for her to continue her education. All of these factors are merely reality.

On my way to the bus station, I was surprised when Happy Angel and another student grabbed my hand. Chinese girls are often affectionate with one another. I was happy to be considered such a friend.

*Students at the Kakwang Professional Academy play a game to learn English words. Happy Angel sits in the second row on the right side looking up a word in the dictionary.

Snake soup

As printed in The Whitworthian:

A bucket of guts stood in front of the shop. Long snake skins were strung above the bucket. Two freshly chopped snake heads held open with toothpicks lay on a table.

I was standing in front of a Hong Kong specialty. Translated into English the restaurant’s name is “Sin, King of the Snakes.”

Taking a seat at a communal table, my friends and I looked at the menu. The items were all in Chinese. The local student who had taken me here, Anny Hung, pointed to some characters explaining soup was the traditional way of eating the snake. We all ordered the smallest bowl possible.

From Anny I learned snake is a common meal for people in Hong Kong during the winter.

“The snake makes you warm,” Anny said.

I did not understand. Hong Kong had been cold for the past month, but not as cold as mainland China. China just emerged from a flurry of snow storms that put the country in land-lock for several weeks. (Click here to read more.)

From the way she spoke, it seemed as if snake had magical powers.

“What do you mean?” I asked. She looked embarrassed to tell me, but eventually she explained.

In Chinese culture if a person has numb hands or feet that person is considered a cold person, Anny said. If a person sweats, has a red face or acne, that person is considered hot.

Certain foods are considered helpful for different types of people. Snake is considered a warm animal. Cold people eat warm animals in order to become, well, warmer.

During the last two months in Hong Kong, I have noticed an almost mystical belief in the power of Chinese medicine. The Chinese use every part of the animal for eating and Chinese medicine.
Walking through the markets in Mong Kok, I found intestines, brains and other unidentifiable animal parts on sale as street food. Close by are Chinese medicine shops, which are always full of customers.

I took a spoonful of the soup. I chewed the bits, taking in the flavor.

Chicken? Pork? Mushroom? I realized that had just bitten into the mushroom in the soup, not the actual snake. Like most Chinese soups, the broth seemed to be made of with corn starch.

Gathering courage I put a spoonful into my mouth. I’d say it tasted pretty close to chicken.
Across the restaurant, a glass case full of snakes was in plain view. I looked down at my soup and back up again, willing myself to take another bite.

Then I noticed these snakes had their mouths sewn shut. I shuddered, tried to forget the bucket of snake guts sitting outside and took another bite.

The cool air from outside blew in. Maybe I was feeling a little warmer.

Contact Jessica Davis at jessica.davis@whitworthian.com.

Learning in Shantou

With my first trip to mainland China only days away, my mind is riddled with doubts.

I leave Friday afternoon for a three day trip to Shantau, China to teach English.

I am very skeptical of my teaching abilities. I do not speak more than five words of Mandarin. I speak even less Cantonese. Both languages are spoken in the regions around Southern China. What impact can I really make in one trip?

On this trip I am scheduled to teach high school students, learn about China's school system and visit local cultural sites.

Shantou has been a special economic zone since 1979. What the term special economic zone means, I still don't really understand.

The city is located in the southeast coast of Guangdong Province. With its economy expanding rapidly, Shantou has still held on to parts of its traditional culture.

Regardless of my abilities, I am very interested in learning more about the Chinese education system. The prospect of interacting with local mainland students also enthralls me. I only hope I learn as much from them as they will learn from me.

I plan on teaching some English songs and play games. Any ideas?

Call to prayer

AS PRINTED IN THE WHITWORTHIAN:

The song seemed to echo through Melaka, a strange, foreign chant. Muslim women walk by dressed in hijabs, traditional head coverings women wear in public.

Loudspeakers broadcast the Muslim call to prayer five times a day to all Muslims in this port city in Malaysia. The melodious cry served as a constant reminder to me that I am a stranger traveling through a country that is 60 percent Islamic.

(View a slide show of Melaka here.)

Leaving Whitworth for the last semester of my senior year, I am studying at the Chinese University of Hong Kong in Hong Kong for six months. I decided to travel through Singapore and Malaysia in Southeast Asia during my two weeks vacation for the Lunar New Year celebrations.

Before traveling to Malaysia, I had never been to an Islamic country. I did not know how Islamic Malaysians would view Americans. I was wary of how Muslims would interact with me after it seemed President Bush had labeled Muslims as evil. I also was not sure what images Hollywood has given Malaysians about Americans, and how I would be treated as a result.

I had read in the news and heard from various people in the United States that Malaysia was a hotspot for terrorists. I knew southern Thailand, just north of Malaysia, was experiencing terrorist attacks from Muslim extremists.

After two weeks of travel, I discovered my fears and hesitations about traveling in an Islamic country were completely unfounded. The people I talked to kept telling me: "This is a peaceful country. We are not a terrorist country."

My travels echoed that statement.

While Malaysia is an "Islamic" country, Islamic law only applies to Muslims when family law and religion are involved, according to the CIA World Factbook.

On the top of a hill in front of the ruins of an old Catholic church, I closed my eyes and listened to the call. The song was not a call to hate-it was a call to worship.

Upon arriving in Melaka, the first people to help me understand the bus system were a group of Muslim girls dressed in hijabs. They were kind, helpful and trusting. They did not hate me because I was an American. Instead they seemed happy to help a foreigner. They treated me with the same kindness and respect they showed everyone else.

I had always believed terrorism and extremists did not represent the majority of Muslims. Now I had seen that what I believed in theory was true in reality. Traveling through Malaysia showed me just how beautiful Islam can be in a country where other religions are given freedom to coexist alongside one another.

The dilapidated old church behind me served as a reminder that Islam has not always been the dominant religion in Malaysia.

According to a 2000 census, the country is 60 percent Muslim, 9 percent Buddhist, 19 percent Christian, 6 percent Hindu and 3 percent a mix of traditional Chinese religions. During Portuguese rule, Christianity dominated due to colonial influence.

While Islam may be the largest religion in Malaysia, the current government guarantees freedom of religion to everyone. The Malaysian government is currently promoting an agenda of unity, harmony and peace between all ethnic groups and religions.

As I stood beside the Catholic ruins, I could see a Hindu and Buddhist temple below. The call to prayer continued to resonate through the city. Church bells from the town square below started their throng in unison with the Muslim song, creating a harmonious sound.

Jessica Davis is a senior majoring in journalism and history studying abroad at the Chinese University of Hong Kong. Contact her at jessica.davis@whitworthian.com.