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.