Ishkoman, I’m Coming – Day 4: Dude Party

We picked up the net and took off our Kimeez shirt which we wrapped around our heads to keep it close and block the sun. Wazir, our friend and close relative to the grizzly bear, looked at my chest and pulled a hair; I think he expected to hear a comical “sproing” sound, but I would give him no such satisfaction. He pointed at his chest and said “this is for real man,” then pointed at mine and said “this is for your wife to play with!”

Mullah, Wazir, cousin

The river following alongside us in our old Japanese jeep was the Ishkoman from which the valley gets its name. The perfect fishing spot eluded us temporarily, but we were sure to find it. At points that seemed impassable on the treacherous mountain road, Jamal would send out his younger cousin to pile rocks and construct makeshift bridges on top of streams and tributaries that blocked our way.

Wazir worked as a gemstone salesman in Dubai but always came back to Shonas for Eid Al-Fitr. He said he knew an old shepherd who lived by the river and collected rocks and that we should pay him a visit to see if he had restocked his wares. The old toothless man that appeared was wearing a vest that looked as though he’d been gnawing on it with his toothless chops and he smelled like the expired milk of his prized goat. The smell of mutton inside the barn was dizzying; it had permeated every fiber of every object including the crystalline structures of the quartz and amethyst that he had stockpiled over the years.

After Wazir affirmed the worthlessness of the man’s petty stones, we followed outside only to be met with the prized goat whose musk clung to every inch of the shepherd’s meager possessions and would cling to us for a while after we left. The goat was resting under the shade of a tree, sprawled on his back, bearing all. Maybe he was intimidated by the overly exhibited manliness of the goat, or maybe he was curious, but whatever the reason Wazir thought it would be best if he (warning: graphic images may remain in your mind days after reading) ran up and flicked the goat’s penis. There was a quick grunt of protest from the goat that could care less about the musings of an immature gem peddler. Wazir turned to me and said “it is huge; this is a lucky shepherd, go touch the goat penis.” Now I will do some unappealing things in the name of cultural sensitivity, but for some reason I presumed that the unceremonious flicking of a goat dick (goat-dick-flick) in no way fell under the umbrella of “traditional Pakistani culture.”

There was a something special in the wind and in the clouds that told us to stop the car and start fishing. Wazir whipped out a bottle of mountain dew before our clamber down the mountainside; Pakistan loves mountain dew. Jamal stayed with the jeep on the dusty mountain path while Wazir, Mullah, cousin, Matt and I all stumbled down to the river carrying two big fishing nets. In our makeshift turbans and rolled up shalwar pants, we watched as Wazir and cousin waded into the frigid river with high spirits. They caught 8 or so adult river trout in less than a few hours.

Wazir loves mountain dew

During our trek along the river looking for a spot for me and Matt to try fishing, Wazir snuck behind a bush to take a leak. I went too and figured that Wazir needn’t be alone while he tried to catch up with the rest of the group. He zipped up, ran out from behind the bushes and, with an outstretched arm, suggested that I take his hand. It wasn’t a tight grip as if he were shaking my hand for the first time and yet it wasn’t tender enough to be an interdigitation shared by lovers. It was an odd but comforting feeling; I hadn’t really held another man’s hand since I was a child holding on to my father’s. It seems that in a society where women are often kept out of the public eye, men have adapted to feel comfortable holding hands just to get that human touch and know that someone is there beside you. I doubt that Wazir felt a revelation similar to my own, but I think he knew that I appreciated the gesture. Matt and I tried our hand at net fishing only to catch a few baby trout that we had to throw back.

Driving back on the opposite side of the valley, we ran into an old friend of theirs who was having car trouble. He hooked a tow cable to the back of our jeep and we drove back together.

Murad was waiting for us back at his house. So was Jageer, Murad’s brother-in-law Hassan, Moussa and others. Murad’s wife and kids would be deep-frying the fish we caught and we would all partake in the biggest dude party this side of the Indus river.

There are a couple of key things at any good dude party that are all owed to Pakistan's unique Muslim-influenced heritage:

1. Women are kept separate from men when many are present; no slimy girls allowed.
2. The dress of both men and women are meant to be humbling, not flattering, and cover up sensitive body areas. This means that all clothes look (and feel) just like pajamas.
3. Many people outside of large cities don't have a television which means that dancing is still a primary form of entertainment.
4. Everyone drinks the aptly-named Doodh Pati Chai (tea); "Doodh Pati" sounds just like "Dude Party" in a Pakistani accent.

To sum it up: you eat a lot, kick the girls out, get in your pjs, dance, and drink dudeparty tea. It's a dude party, dude.

wearing matching pj's prepping for the dudeparty

We had enjoyed a nice gender-segregated meal with 15 other guys when there was a sudden blackout. Murad's wife came in to the pitch black room with a flashlight and a propane tank. The tank was attached to a small lantern bulb and illuminated the room in a dull light that made it feel like camping. Jageer picked up an old gas can to drum on and Wazir found a sitar and the dancing began.

Dancing happens in 2/4 time with the first beat slightly syncopated. Dancers go up one at a time and strut their stuff in the middle, surrounded by friends who are clapping, cheering, and singing. There is no right way to dance, and it seemed as though the more true to yourself you were in your dancing, the better it was. Each person had their own flavor of dance, with hints of Pakistan - shoulder shrugs, wrist flips, staccato leg movements reminiscent of a chicken's mating dance.

The music plays and you do your move, only one move with very slight variation. Then the beat picks up, people shout louder and clap harder and your one move evolves, much like a Pokemon, into a more complex version of your first move. The shrugs get deeper, the flips get quicker, the kicks get stronger. It's quite a sight and a worthy experience to be a part of. If only every day could be a dude party.

Ishkoman, I’m Coming – Day 3: Eid Mubarak

Eid-al Fitr is Pakistani Halloween. Everyone dresses up in their new Shalwar Kimeez, the traditional Pakistani duds, and children's shouts of "trick or treat" sounds more like "tea and fruit." It is the day after the last day of the month of Ramadan ("Ramazan" in Urdu) for which all Muslims fast during the day and only eat at night and in the early morning before the sun comes up. When you can eat at natural times again, it's only natural to have a celebration.

We took a walking tour of the entirety of Shonas and stopped at about 8 houses for 18 cups of tea and even more homemade cream, biscuits, egg-noodles in a sweet milk soup, almonds, apples.

At Ayub's family's house, we were greeted by "the Mullah," Ayub's brother and all-around nice guy who had a reputation for the hottest dancing feet on this side of the valley. He had a beard sans-moustache and he wore Chitrali Cap, also known by its Afghan name "Pawkul" popularized by anti-soviet resistance fighter Ahmed Shah Masoud.

He sat down, Murad said something in dialect, probably Khowar, then everyone laughed and had a hearty round of high-fives, except for Mullah who chuckled and wore a smile of embarrassment on his beard-faced face.

"I just said that he looks like a Taliban and that the foreigners must be terrified," Murad expounded in between sounds of stifled laughter. To be honest, he looks more Mennonite than he does Taliban.

Mullah, deep in thought:

As we walked from house to house, we were greeted on the streets by many a stranger who just wanted to tap my heart, shake hands and say "Eid mubarak" - Happy Eid.

It is the feeling of the genuineness of your reception that makes Eid-al Fitr so special. People do really just want to take a friend into their house for 10 minutes and give them a biscuit as they schmooze over a cup of chai. At Mahboob's house, we sat outside on a set of patio furniture that looked like it had been stolen from my grandparents' old duplex in Queens - chipped white paint, rusted iron, wicker-pattern chairs. His 4 year old daughter came up to me and started speaking to me, first in dialect (Khowar, Shina?), then in Urdu. I used my minimal Urdu to ask her name "Apka nam kya heh?" then tell her my name "Mera nam Jono heh." We became fast friends. Murad was talking to Mahboob while his daughter would run off somewhere then bring back something to show me, then speak to me in Urdu, none of which I understood. First she handed me an apple, then she disappeared and brought back a cat. I don't think I was supposed to eat the cat, but I was gracious for the apple.

We made it to Wazir's house by sundown. He had offered to host us the night before but was beat to the punch by the comic king Jageer. Wazir looks like Pakistani Elvis, an occasionally wore aviator sunglasses - he was the coolest kid in Shonas, especially while wearing sexy eyewear.

The façade of his cool came crashing down as he met us at the door of his house. With a pout, he said "I've been waiting all day for you guys! I had all these eggs hardboiled for you!" 2 things: 1) In hearing that we would spend the night at his place, he had assumed that we would be with him all day as well. 2) He prepared about 10 hardboiled eggs to "egg fight" with.

There were 3 local boys, Wazir, Wazir's son, Wazir's brother Abdul, Matt, Murad, Jageer, and Myself. An egg fight, as explained by Wazir is: "I don't even like it, I think it is stupid. But I will fight you with my egg." You find an egg you like, and you tap your opponent's egg until one of them cracks, the one whose egg does not crack is the winner. He shrugged off eggfights like it was a child's game, but he put on his game face and smashed eggs at a near-olympic level.

It was a boy's night out: we ate dinner with our hands, had eggfights, played cards, played with guns, sang and danced and played sitar into the night. The card game "Big 2" was a big hit.

Intoxicated on competition (eggs and cards), Wazir began to talk. He told us how Abdul used to fight and drink alcohol until a priest convinced him to be a better Muslim. Before, Abdul looked like Daniel Day-Lewis from "Gangs of New York," now he looks Amish. He made us promise that we'd go fishing with him the next day. He told us that I looked like the old Chitrali man who used to come to his village to fix broken cups.

Wazir with an old picture of Abdul:
Abdul now, in the background:

Wazir showing his guns:


Eid Mubarak everyone, peace on earth.

Ishkoman, I’m Coming – Day 2: Let’s Get Sitarted

Jageer is the funniest man in the world. Not just in Shonas or Ishkoman, or Gilgit, or Pakistan, or Asia, but the whole world. Now if I could only understand Kowari I’d tell you what he was saying.Every time he spoke, somebody around him would laugh, and somebody would get a high five. In Pakistan, the hilarity of any joke can be gauged by the number and intensity of high fives given after the delivery of a joke, and Jageer always got the most.


He asked us the night before if we would stay in his house and treat us to food and music. Matt and I both agreed. Jageer lived in Shonas as well, but further up the mountainside near a waterfall that we could reach via hikeable path.

At an unreasonably early 7am, all the lights in the tranquilly dim common-room turned on and Indian bollywood music began to play. Moussa had sabotaged our slumber and in a firm, English-as-a-second-language voice said “I think… it is time… to… stand up.” We didn’t start the hike for at least 2 hours; from that moment on I found Moussa annoying.

Wazir pulled up to Murad’s house in an old Japanese jeep to pick us up and drive us to Jageer’s place. Wazir was sad that we wouldn't be staying with him at his house that night, but we promised that we would be his for the night after, and the day after that we would go fishing. Homemade chapatti, cream, and butter awaited us, the foreigners who couldn’t follow Ramazan. The hike was on a dirt path to a waterfall. The sun was hot and our Shalwar Kimeez kept our skin from burning and kept the sweat close to our bodies. Murad picked some wild red and orange berries (sea buckthorn berries) for us, since he was following Ramazan. The berries were extremely tart and citrusy with a pleasantly sweet aftertaste. We hiked down from the waterfall, back to Jageer’s house where Murad dumped us and said he’d pick us up the next day.

The 3 of us sat down in the common room among cylindrical pillows and sitars.

Five strings, only the center string tuned differently than the other four. The sound is layered, not redundant, and celestial. He sat down and looked at us as his clowning demeanor melted away in a foreign tune that seemed improvised until he began to sing.
He claimed to be able to recreate any song that he heard and play it on the sitar. So I have him my iPod® playing “Blackbird” by The Beatles. There was a silence, followed by a Ravi Shankar rāga that might have been the sound that Paul McCartney heard when he thought that he could recreate any song that he heard on his guitar.

The next morning would be Eid-al Fitr and a good rest was needed in preparation. Jageer rolled out some sheets and we fell asleep to the overlapping sounds of an old wooden sitar.

Ishkoman, I’m Coming – Day 1: Tick Tock

Touch his heart, lightly grasp forearm, shake hands, touch own heart “as-salaam aleykum, Eid Mubarak! Kya hal heh? Teek tahk.”
The handshake is strange at first, but it becomes quite natural after a few tries. Not all people are completely comfortable with the heart-shake and will just go to give you a standard, western-style shake. Although, even that shake is not as firm and doesn’t have the same stronger-than-thou male machismo intention.
“Teek tahk,” in Urdu means “good” or “I’m good.” When it’s said quickly, it sounds like “tick tock.” My hand pulled away from Murad’s father’s aged heart and wrapped his grizzled hand as he looked me in the eyes and, in a raspy, toothless voice, said “tick tock.” I couldn’t help but smile an unusually wide grin as I thought of this man in some retirement home in America where he, when asked how he was, would only respond with muted clock noises.

I did the handshake an innumerable amount of times over the course of four days. Northwest of Gilgit, in Ghizar county, in Gilgit-Baltistan (formerly known as “Northern Areas,” or “NA”), off of a bumpy tributary road of the KKH, lost in time, sandwiched in the crevasse of the Ishkoman Valley, lie the facing villages of Shonas and Da’in. It is the home of our Pakistani guides and good friends, Murad Khan and Muhammed Raja Ayub Khan (no relation), and their motley band of misfits, friends, cousins, and complete strangers.

We first left to Murad’s house on a four hour bus ride from Gilgit. The bus stopped at the police checkpoint on the Ishkoman border and asked for our identification. In a ratty, old ledger, Matt and I wrote down our names, nationalities and passport numbers. I was pleased to find that these checkpoints were very common along the KKH and were used to keep suspect characters out of legitimately peace-loving towns. At the next stop, we picked up some children and their mother. At another stop, we picked up a large-bearded shepherd with a staff and Chitrali hat who looked like Pakistani Gandalf when he was still called “Gandalf the Decrepit.”
He put his staff in the back while Murad looked at us and beckoned a warning, “He could blow at any second.” This, I would find out, was only the first of many terrorist/Taliban jokes.

Off the dirt road behind the stone wall was Murad’s home. Tired from a day’s travel, we collapsed on the furnitureless floors of his living room. Most residential Pakistani rooms are unfurnished aside from a full carpet and cylindrical pillows to lean on. We were brought tea, chapatti(bread), and homemade cream to snack on before the grand tour. I had had one cup of tea in Sost, and one cup in Alliyabad, but this would be my first of oh-so-many homemade cups of doot-patti milk tea.
Murad had lambs and cows and farmland where he grew wheat, corn, potatoes and other vegetables. Most dairy food we had in his house was homemade and delicious. His property overlooked the Ishkoman river and was situated in a basin of mountains. He pointed out the homes of his childhood friends; some had stayed, had arranged marriages and had 4 to 8 children, while others had moved to Gilgit, Lahore, Karachi, or as far as Dubai to find a life of markets and business, leaving behind the serenity and near-complete isolation of the valley.


The sun was setting as Murad, his friend Jageer, Matt and I sat in the living room playing a life-or-death game of Parcheesi. The images of Mickey Mouse, Goofy, Pikachu, and Cinderella adorned the battleground of the most intense match of a children’s board game in history. A horde of children gathered to stare in through the windows waiting for the Angrezi (foreigner, literally “Englishman”) to do something amazing. They would be disappointed on that front, but truly happy to catch a glimpse of us rare creatures.


I think I was more intrigued by the children than they were of me. Most residents of Gilgit-Baltistan (GB) in no way resemble the Punjabis and Sindhis that make up the majority of the Pakistani population; Murad looks Italian, Skandar looks like a Ukrainian-American immigrant, and Ayub looks like a Polish train conductor. Some of the children have the most stunning golden-brown eyes with locks of dirty-blonde hair. Their facial features are somewhat Aryan. Years of isolation among the valleys has produced a beautifully unique people who derive their appearances from Tajik, Afghan, Turkic, and Persian peoples with some influence of Alexander the Great’s armies as they marched through the territory some 1700 years ago. They are mostly Ismaili Muslims who have the Aga Khan as their spiritual leader. They are forward thinking and uncommonly loving people.
Dinner was served after sundown for Me, Matt, Murad, his cousin Moussa, Jageer, his brother-in-law Hassan, and his elderly parents. Although the Ismailis are very progressive, the absence of women at dinner, aside from Murad’s mother, clearly displays a still mostly male-dominated society. Women receive education, but they are still required to wear non-revealing clothing, headscarves at some times, and typically do not assume occupations other than housewife. However, the Aga Khan Development Network (AKDN) is trying to change this with Female Empowerment programs that set them up with jobs like handicraft production and gem-polishing. Murad’s wife is an English teacher, and she is very well educated.

It was the last night before the last day of Ramadan (“Ramazan” in Urdu) and the beginning of the four-day festival holiday Eid-al Fitr. Exhausted from dinner, we retired to the common room where makeshift beds made from sheets and blankets were already waiting for us.

On an extremely serious note: Bride Snatching

We met Jackie in a guest house in Karakol, Kyrgyzstan. She is a photojournalist currently working on a piece about the Kyrgyz phenomenon/tradition of bride kidnapping. The way she described it:

The parents of a son expect him to take a bride soon after they build a new house for him and his family to live in. If he is not dating anyone or a marriage hasn't been arranged, he might kidnap a bride. Sometimes the kidnapped woman is someone he may know, either from school or a friend etc., or she may be a stranger on the street. He rounds up a few of his friends and prowls the streets by car. When he finds the appropriate women, they grab her and throw her into the car and forcefully take her back to his home. Once there, he will most likely force himself upon her regardless of concent, ie rape her. The village matriarchs will be there to comfort her telling the new bride that "this is our culture" and "this is how it's been done for hundreds of years." They put a white scarf on her head, which is the cultural form of the contractual binding of their marriage.
They keep the bride behind a curtain in a separate room in the house and have people from around the village come and pay to get a glimpse of the new bride. A delegation is sent by the husband's family to the bride's to negotiate the actual marriage. The delegation usually brings gifts as a sort of dowry.

I have recently witnessed a kidnapping in its terrible entirety. I thought of Jackie and wrote her an email:

Jackie,

This is Jono - we met at the guesthouse in Karakol; I was the American with a moustache.
My eyes are watering with tears now as I begin to think about the terrified girl I just saw being throw into a car by 7 men on the streets of Osh. Let me tell you what happened:

Matt and I had just sat down at an Uzbek restaurant after commenting to each other how we heard that the streets of Osh could be dangerous at night, and after dinner we should go straight back to the guest house.
After being served two bowls of black tea, I noticed two girls walking quickly whilst being followed by a horde (no pun intended) of men. Suddenly the girls grabbed each others hands and began to run. The men chased them maybe 10 meters until the moment they passed by our table and both of them were grabbed from behind in a sort of bear-hug. One of the struggling women punched one of the men in the face, but, by that point, any attempt to escape would have been more than futile. The other girl was dragged by one of the men into a small, white car that had seemingly appeared from nowhere. 4 of the men got into the car with the woman (1 in front and 3 in back), the last man slamming the right-side door a couple of times before actually getting it shut. I didn't see where the other 2 men went, but when I scanned the area for them, they were nowhere in sight. The girl who was left took out her cell phone - probably simply as a panic response, but realizing soonafter that there was nobody she could call to help the situation.

This is a scene I will replay over and over in my mind, and I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to shake it. These women were clearly modern women, wearing western clothes, with cell phones, and purses, about 28 years old I'd say. I think I would be safe to say that neither of these women grew up talking to their girl friends saying "I want to get an education and a university degree, then work for about 6 or 7 years. After that, I hope I get kidnapped by a mob of men and settle down with a stranger." And I seriously doubt her mother would look on as the unshaven Kyrgyz man manhandles her daughter and says with a gold-toothed smile: "I remember my first kidnapping," without thinking, even for the tiniest iota of a moment "there is something
wrong with this."

After witnessing this, there is no way that I can say this isn't a clear and awful violation of human rights. It is a cultural remnant of a patriarchal time that no longer has a place in a modern society. When I first heard your stories of this happening in the countryside, it seemed more plausible, but in Osh?

I continue to see the terrified face of that one girl and I imagine her speeding away, tears streaming down her face. Then they get back to his house, and her life changes forever.

I wish you the best of luck in your photojournalism journeys.

Keep in touch if you have any questions for me.

Best,
Jono

-----------------

My impression of Kyrgyzstan has been truly amazing. It is a beautiful country with warm and genuine people. However, human rights abuses and domestic violence cases do happen. The worst part of the whole experience was that I felt completely powerless to do anything. There will always be some lingering guilt in the back of my mind about not acting. After it all went down, I heaved a sigh and drank from my bowl of tea.

I promise I'll have some good stories about Kyrgyzstan soon.

http://jackiedewemathews.com/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bride_kidnapping#Kyrgyzstan
http://www.hrw.org/en/reports/2006/09/26/reconciled-violence

There's a Moustache on my face, what do I do?

Initially I started growing facial hair to blend in while travelling in Pakistan, but it has gotten dangerously out of hand. After about 3 weeks, the beard and sideburn stubble was boyish and unkempt and it had to be removed. This left my face with a moustache that, various people have told me, makes me look like certain other peoples:

• The old man from Chitral (Pakistan) that used to come to our house and fix broken cups. -Wazir, Shonas Village, Pakistan

• Qazi Sab, the village elder from Kalasha (Pakistan). -Ayub Khan, Pakistan

• A Pathan from the Swat Valley. -Islamist Student, Hyderabad Train Station, Pakistan

• While wearing a hat, one of "The Village People" -Matt Reichel, while travelling in Kashgar

• A Russian left behind in Kazakhstan after the fall of the U.S.S.R. -Бакыт (Bakyt), Yurt camp owner in Манжылы-Ата (Manzhyly-Ata), Kyrgyzstan

• Super Mario -Anton, ethnic-Kazakh Russian we met in Manzhyly-Ata, Kyrgyzstan

• Сыдыков Абдыкерим (Abdykerim Sydykov), statesman of Kyrgyzstan, President Semirechensk Regional Executive Committee (1922) -Bust of Abdykerim Sydykov in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

• Tom Selleck -Kim Gemme

This is it:

Carved in Stone - Reflections from the KKH

"This is pretty scary, right?" I said as the crowded bus swerved to avoid a gaping pothole in the middle of the dirt road, the leftmost tires gripping pebbles and nothing. I contemplated the possibility that this imported Japanese schoolbus could careen off this mountain pass into the river below as I spoke aloud: "our lives are entirely in the hands of our driver."

"First they are in Allah's hands... then our driver's," the young man of 25 to my left assured me.

Unassured, I looked up to notice a brilliant moon illuminating the night sky in a gradient from white to black, but never touching gray. The other stars, normally radiant, glowed dimly, jealously. The moon set late in the night to reveal the same night sky that compelled Gallileo to wake up and say "I must invent the telescope." I remembered seeing the Milky Way from a similar viewpoint some nights before, during the new moon after Eid-al Fitr. Silhouetted mountains were peperred with the earthly stars of little houses in even smaller hamlets with juniper wood fires for brewing tea. It was then that I noticed that Allah's outstretched hands had guided us safely into Chipurson Valley.

The Karakoram Highway (KKH) is about 40 years old and is currently being renovated. There are 4 to 5 thousand Chinese laborers hard at work connecting China's cheap goods to Pakistan's cheaper markets. It is the major artery that connects western China to Pakistan and far northern Pakistan to Islamabad. The snaking road that hugs the side of the karakoram overlooking the Indus river is only ever as wide as to allow the width of two cars separated by just enough space to keep the paint from scratching off two passing cars. One learns to accept potentially near death experiances as commonplace. In the three weeks I spent in Pakistan, about 40 hours were clocked on the picturesque and oftentimes periloius KKH.

Most human transportation between cities on the KKH is done with old 15-seat toyota vans. These vans will only leave the depot if there are at least 19 passengers in the seats, sometimes with more hanging off the back or sitting on top alongside the luggage. The ride is cramped and hot. Women and children usually sit in the first row behind the driver.

Driving in the daytime, the road is enveloped in a couldren of mountains. As the path winds, the mountains cleave from one another in an ever-widening "V" (or lowercase "y") reavealing new titans, each one more spectacular than the last.


Even though the ride from Shonas to Gilgit may be uncomfortable, sometims you get to meet some fun characters. Afsar and I had a conversation about Pakistani hiphop - his cousin "Bee Jay Hussein" was the most famous "northsyde" rapper in Gilgit-Baltistan (formerly the "Northern Areas" or "NA"). He told me how much people liked Lupe Fiasco here because he was a muslim rapper.

The 25-year old going to Chipurson with us was trying to secure support for his "Walk 4 Peace" from "Khunjerab 2 Karachi." The 100-day walk would try to raise awareness of the Pakistani domestic problems in Swat and Tribal Areas and show that the majority of the Pakistani people are against the Talibanization of their people.

My conversation with Afsar was interrupted by the sight of some viscous orange-brown liquid creeping down the window. It was local apricot jam and I just hoped none of it jammed my bag stored up top. I drifted off to sleep and expected to wake up covered in jam.


I had just begun to doze off when I was abruptly roused from my slumber by a terrible noise. A brilliantly adorned sphinxy painted in the brightest greens and yellows had honked its horn. On the KKH, the sounds and sights of these hulking iron beasts on wheels are quite common. The passing of a truck is always accompanied by the blast of its horn or, when there was no need to honk, by the gentle sound of chimes followed by the roar of a diesel engine. The truck is truly a product of a failed "Pimp My Ride" episode where Xzibit takes some redneck's pickup and comes out at the end of the episode and tells the owner "Aight, your trunk can hold 50000 kilos of potatoes now. We set you up with a horn that is as loud as it is obnoxious and sounds like mo'f'n' Flash Gordon's lizardman-blastin' lasergun killing an elephant." Some of them have decorative Ben Hur-like charriot spours. Dick Dastardly is the driver while Muttley rides shotgun and operates the smoke screen and oil slick.


On the 16 hour busride from Gilgit to Mansehra, in addition to stops to let people off the bus, we stopped four times. The first stop was right outside Gilgit for lunch. We stopped in Chilas for a tea break. At about 6pm, we stopped for evening prayer, which conventiantly gave the bus driver enough time to change a tire. The last stop was my favoirte and always is on these long rides on the KKH: dinner at a cliffside restaurant. Lit by Christmas lights and propane-fueled lanterns, we're presented with a plate of roti(bread), daal(lentils), and gosht(beef) as we sit on a rope-mesh bench as a tributary of the Indus rushes beside us.


The KKH is an unforgiving mistress, but at least I'll have Allah on my side the next time I'm on a shaky 40-year old rope bridge when it snaps.

Tsingtaoktoberfest

(Note: pictures courtesy Ben Piven, www.benpiven.com)
(There will be more pictures later, I'm just going to post this now, too much lag-time between posts)

Tsingtao Beer can give you Passion and Happiness.

Every year, from August 15th to 30th, the city of Qingdao, Shandong Province (alternatively spelled "Tsingtao") hosts a beer festival. It takes place in the aptly named "Beer City" which is a large square in the development center, about a 20-minute cab ride outside of the old city.

After a successful trip to North Korea, Ben and Kelly trusted us enough for us to lead them on another trip to beach-and-beer Qingdao. We would be there for Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday until mid-afternoon.

We began tastefully on Friday - stopping by "Beer Street" which had more varieties of seafood than they did beer. Tiger-prawns, crab, clams, and sea snails came to the large round open-air table, followed by a few different pitchers of Qingdao draughts - a standard pilsner, a wheat beer, and then a "green beer" which had a strange green tint to it, probably mixed with seaweed or something of equal nastiness.

By this point we were joined by Grishma and Palak, two British girls (of Indian descent), who had met Ben at his hostel in Shanghai, who he had convinced to come to Qingdao for the Beer Festival with him.

As we were enjoying our clams and snails, we were approached by several girls, no older than 10, who tried to sell us roses. Each girl had her own approach to this lucrative business. The first one pulled a rose out of her bouquet, pulled all the petals off, and handed them to Ben with a sad look. Was that supposed to get him to buy another to make up for it? I'm not sure and I never will be. The second one was more forceful and direct - asking him to buy it for the pretty Indian girl sitting to his left. When Ben said he didn't want any, the girl responded "你有病！(pronounced: nee yo bing!)" translated: "You suck!" but translated more literally: "You have a sickness!" When I told Ben that she claimed he had some sort of sickness he asked me to ask her what sort of sickness. "他有什么病？” to which she responded "艾滋病！(ai zi bing)," "He has AIDS!" We bought no flowers from these girls.

After dinner we walked to another restaurant on beer street and sat down to just chill and get some beers. It was just Ben, Kelly, and I until this point, but we were joined shortly after by Waz, another friend of Ben's that he met in a hostel that he convinced to come to Qingdao.

It was a bit chilly that night; Qingdao is colder due to it's proximity to the ocean. The waiters noticed our nippyness and provided us with Hello Kitty towels to wrap ourselves in (I got a keroppi). One of the waiters sat down next to us while his two friends chided him and called him "fatface" (in chinese); His face was particularly round - but he was a nice guy who tried to relate to us Americans by telling us how he was affected by the death of Michael Jackson.

{fatface}

A man with an Erhu （二胡）, a traditional Chinese two-stringed instrument, came up to us and offered to play us a song as he so wisely noted that "Music is the universal language." He played us his favorite tune for 10rmb ($1.47)

{erhu}

The next day was rainy, but that was okay because we'd be spending that day in the Tsingdao BEEEER factory! Chinese people get the short end of the stick for getting "Asian glow" when they drink, but in reality, when these guys glow it's like glowing from the nuclear radiation that is radiating from their bodies because they are superheros and their super-powers are drinking lots and lots of alcohol.

The beer factory museum was boring and uninformative with some unorganized pictures and descriptions of the original factory owned by a German company blah blah when do we get free samples? They came eventually after we saw the production line with conveyor belts.

Afterwards they let us into the "drunk room" which was just a room with a slanted floor. After some time in the drunk room, we all began to suspect that it was more than a room with a slanted floor. Some were convinced that the room was moving ever so slightly, because they were feeling pretty drunk. The tour guides all claimed that the room is just a plain unmoving room.

That night was the penultimate night of the Beer Festival, and we were ready to enjoy. Now I had never been to any sort of beer festival before but I can only assume that this is some sort of strange bastardization of one. Kelly and I bought scalped tickets at 15RMB as opposed to the list price of 20 and met up with the rest of the gang already inside.

As you enter the Beer City, you are immediately bombarded by lights and signs and several men dressed up as Mickey Mouse mascots.

We started the night appropriately with the purchase of a light-up Viking Hat

Followed by our bumping into China's most powerful mullet.

Seeing mullets and buying hats is all well and good, but the nicest thing about drinking in China is that kebab sellers are always on the lookout for drunk people. If you were to walk into the Beer City not knowing what event was taking place, you'd probably assume that it was a Beer and Chuar, meat-on-a-stick, festival. The meat sellers were each trying to outmeat the other vendors next to them by wearing more outlandish meatfits and dancing more meatily.

Grishma and Palak used their 50RMB pitcher vouchers to purchase two 100RMB pitchers of watered-down Erdinger. The drinks disappointed, but the entertainment did not. Their was a cute girl on stage rocking out, singing, and dancing for the multitudes of drunken Chinese families. After a song, one man came up and gave her a rose. After another song, one man came up and gave her a chuar.

After another song, an excited father gave his son a bit to drink.

"Save some for me, son!" he says, as his son passes out next to him.

"Here! Add some orange soda to the beer, it's an ancient Chinese tradition!" Says his drunk peasant cousin.

When the girl's set was over, a Meatloaf(the singer, not the meat)-shaped man appeared to take her place. He wasn't as sexy, even when he did a backflip off stage and then whipped his glorious hair back.

The carnival games section of the festival was not as busy, but proved to be just as entertaining. Hearing the slightly muted synthesis of karaoked music in the distance, an old lady in her pj's began to dance. She was probably senile and let out of the old folk's home for this one festive night, but she brought moves the likes of which I had only imagined were possible in the most fantastic of my dreams. Ben, Kelly, and I danced with her while the limeys were riding some carnival ride.

The night was nearing it's end and we were pretty sober. The legit beer turned out to be less-than-drinkable, and we resorted to those classic big-bottles of local beer for 5RMB a pop. Drinking and walking, we found ourselves at a table of boozy Mongolians.

There were three of them; one of them had a beard and was very quiet, another was of medium stature and would not stop singing to us, and the third one - was short and chunky and could not help but profess his undying love for Kelly. The singing one was less singing and more showing off his vocal range, bellowing the lowest of the low notes while the higher notes operatically exploded from his face. Fat one told Kelly in English: "AI uh-LAAHHVF yuuouu," and switching to Chinese "我永远爱你." He, without warning or a second thought, hugged Kelly and kissed her on the cheek. Saddened, I asked him "what about me?" and he hugged me and marked my neck with a Mongolian hickey. I told fat one that Kelly and Ben were married and that he couldn't have her. We moved on, serenaded by Mongolians, sad to see us go.

The PBR and Budweiser signs passed us by as we stumbled towards our last destination of the night - another stage with more singing people. This time they graced us with some accented versions of "What's Up?," by 4 Non Blondes, and "Hotel California," by The Eagles. A new fat guy treated us to drink as he took the ladies one by one to go dance with him. He was wearing some freaky mask featured in the film "Eyes Wide Shut." His skinny companion made Ben dance with him on the table as a fierce lineup of policemen right outside the tent looked on with trepidation and certain disgust. The show ended and we went home full of beer, meat and memories.

The next day Ben, Waz and I biked along the Qingdao coastline until we got to Beach #3. The shore was littered with people getting married and crab fishermen. We bought pseudo-speedos and attacked the beach with our western ideals and eastern trunks. A group of Chinese men challenged us to feats-of-strength or something equally barbaric, I think we lost, but we had a good time.

{feats of strength}

There was a fat guy who got buried by his friends in sand and we took pictures of him.

{buddha}

We biked back to the hostel, packed our bags, and took the train back to Beijing. It is not the case that most things I do in China revolve around drinking, just most of the bloggable things. I'm off to Pakistan soon, a completely Muslim nation, where drinking is culturally forbidden but exciting stories should be abundant. Until then, goodbye Tsingdao, land of passion and happiness.

This guy had a ROCKIN' bod, I swear...

8 things to do before you can go home tonight:

1. Arm wrestle a girl and lose convincingly
2. Get someone to touch your bicep
3. Get someone to unbutton your shirt
4. Dance with a black chick (sometimes hard to find in Beijing)
5. Do someone else's job
6. Ride a bicycle
7. Talk to a group of 4 or more strangers
8. Gamble with a Chinese person

It was August, 8th, 2009 and two days before my birthday. I wouldn't be going out on my actual birthday of August 10th, because we would be picking up a number of people from the airport for our North Korea trip. So Nick, my friend/business partner/partner-in-crime, took me out on the 8th and told me that the two of us would be celebrating my birthday tonight.

I had been a little bummed recently about not having a girlfriend, or too many friends in Beijing, and living in a weird old house with poor plumbing and "parents." I had told Nick and he decided on a remedy for my bummy-ness.

"We're going to make a list of 8 things that we have to do tonight before we can go home. To check off an item, either one of us can do it, but you have to do most of them." I went out of my comfort zone that night, but the feeling that this would guarantee a ridiculous night and a memorable story kept me going.

Nick smooothly slid next to a girl sitting next to us at the bar and convinced her to armwrestle me. I tried to tell her that she had no chance at winning, and she would see that if she would only touch my bicep. She refused...

Task 2, Status: Failed, Course of Action: attempt again later

We placed our elbows adjacent to each other on a bar stool and began to wrestle. She quickly resorted to the two-handed "cheater" method and bested me. It was convincing at least.

Task 1, Status: Success, Reward: drink more

We chatted a bit and she told us that she was waiting for her friend and that she was studying classical music and English language. She was a cool girl, but Nick and I were on a mission.

As we walked from Nanjie Bar to our next, as-of-yet-undetermined bar. 顺便, On the way, we passed a woman selling jianbing, 煎饼. A jianbing is Chinese scallion pancake creation which is made by pouring a thin layer of batter onto a circular hot iron slab, next an egg is cracked into the middle and scrambled around, then it is flipped, then hot sauce and salty-brown-paste is slathered onto its insides while scallions and a crunchy 油条, fried bread stick, is tossed in the middle. It is folded into a burrito and served in a plastic bag.

Clearly, I understood the workings of jianbing, and I believed that I could be a jianbing seller. Her business was operated out of a cart, much like the one featured below.

I asked her politely if I could commandeer her cart for a while in order to complete task 5. She responded rather curiously, "You know, you're not the first foreigner to ask me that." Unfortunately, jianbing is a very hot food, and it was a very hot night. In the ten minutes I waited there, there were no buyers. As an alternative... I asked her if I could ride her jianbing Cart. Although the cart had 3 wheels, Nick and I consulted with the judges and asserted that a 3-wheel jianbing Cart is, in fact, a bicycle. I received a brief driving lesson and I was on my way!

The jianbing Cart is an unruly vehicle, tamed only by the most skilled of drivers.

Task 5, Status: Failed

Task 6, Status: Success!

Scoreboard update!

Task #	Task	Status
1	Arm wrestle a girl and lose convincingly	Success
2	Get someone to touch your bicep	Failure
3	Get someone to unbutton your shirt	n/a
4	Dance with a black chick	n/a
5	Do someone else's job	Failure
6	Ride a bicycle	Success
7	Talk to a group of 4 or more strangers	n/a
8	Gamble with a Chinese person	n/a

We wandered to Sanlitun Village, a newly constructed high-class shopping mall, where, on the west side there exists a collection of bars that cater to the young expat crowd, and on the east, a bizarro mirror image of the west. Expat bars are loud and slimy because the expats are loud, slimy, and drunk. The expats sit inside or outside depending on the weather and chill out with a couple of brews or get boozy and dance the night away on a rooftop. But across the way, in bizarro-world, the bars are loud and slimy because they play ear-bleedeningly loud disco/hip-hop (dick-hop?) and have scantily-clad women sing and dance on the stages up front.

At some of the better-funded bars, there are employed "solicitors" outside trying to "convince" potential customers to come in and have a drink. By this I mean that they scream "欢迎光临！(welcome customers!)" in your face as they grab you by the arm and thrust you inside the bar. I imposingly asked a solicitor if I could do his job.

I donned the purple-and-black plaid, fake Dolce & Gabbana, button-up t-shirt that was the defining dress of "Studio 64.”

The waiters brought out a coke each for Nick and I, and we chatted it up as I, albeit quite timidly, attempted to grab people and thrust them into the bar. I commented to one of the solicitors how buff I look in these D&G T's and said to him "For serious... touch my bicep... it's huge."

Task 2, Status: Success, for real this time!

A band of rowdy Irish-folk walked by and they were all quite intrigued with the white-boy trying to sell this Chinese bar. I had told them that the music was good and the drinks were cheap and that they should go inside and have a look.

Task 5, Status: Success, you're doing great!

We went inside to see if there was any work in there that could be done. The boys gave each of us a bottle of Tsingtao, on the house - later that night, I would make "the house" my house.

I saw what appeared to be a group of 4 foreign ladies and I, while still in uniform, walked over and asked them if they needed any help, more drinks, etc. I hoped maybe I could start a conversation with them, but they really, really didn't need any help.

Task 7, Status: Failed

A little sad at having failed so many times tonight, I sat back with my drink and waited for the show that was about to begin on stage. It would be a pole dancing show... and I was very excited.

The guy that got on had a ROCKIN bod, no joke. He was sporting at least a six-pack, maybe he went to Costco and picked up a 30-rack, I can't be certain - at this point I was quite stunned but the rest of the night that of which are about to hear, I assure you, actually happened.

He spun around the pole with the tempestuousness of a whirling dervish all the while maintaining the grace of a plum blossom petal, gently wafting to meet the ground.

Nick and I looked at each other, shared no words, and continued to stare in amazement.

Then she got on. She danced with no delicacy, no apprehension, no remorse. There was power in her movements. She made that pole her bitch. Nick said to me "If we can get her to have a drink with us, then go out for a snack, I'll count everything on the list as finished."

Nick got her to sit down with us, but she didn't have a drink because she was driving home. He also convinced the DJ to play a song and have me bboy (breakdance, whut whut) up on stage. I was reluctant, but the second that song came on, I knew that all my failures of that night would be redeemed when the pole dancer has dinner with me.

Before the 5 of us got in the car, I had to hang up my uniform. The owner of the bar greeted me and asked me what I did on Friday and Saturday nights. "I'll give you a job. Everyone would want to come to the bar with the street-dancin' foreigner." I was honored, but I still refused.

Pole-dancing girl, pole-dancing guy, guy's friend, Nick and I found ourselves at a restaurant a few minutes later. Girl called her girl-friend, and the 6 of us ate and talked.

The male pole-dance, A Quan, had been a Law major at college, but preferred dancing. Female pole-dancer's friend, Bingbing, was a formally-trained modern dancer but worked as a dancer at one of the bars on the same street we were just at.

Nick and I hopped a cab home.

Tonight, success.

I think I'm a Buddhist; don't tell my mother - she'd plotz

"Put down your tchotchkes, wipe the shmutz off your face, and head back to shul like the mensch that you are," is what she would say, had I told her this story.

The Refuge Card (皈依证, guiyizheng) I received that day about a week and a half ago proves that I am an official convert to Buddhism recognized by the Chinese government. The application to convert cost about 40RMB (~6USD) and before getting the card, one must perform the sacred Buddhist conversion ritual that I have described below.

The Beijing Guanghua Temple (北京广化寺) is located in a hutong off of Houhai. If you go right, you are thrust into a commercial paradise of Mao t-shirts, cigarette lighters, fans, and stinky tofu. But were you to choose the left path (not to be confused with the eightfold path), you would be forced to navigate a labyrinthine mess of concrete, beggars, incense, and fragrant wooden bracelets before arriving at the temple.

Nodding my head at a few of the temple's monks, I said "Namo Amitofo" and shoved my way into the temple courtyard which was packed with 800+ Chinese people, all pumped up and ready to convert.

Were all of these people really ready to shun all worldly possessions for the chance of rebirth in the pure land? I highly doubt it, but they are ready to get a free ticket to all Buddhist temples. Mount Wutai, a UNESCO Heritage site in Shanxi province, costs a compulsory 168RMB plus an additional 70RMB for the bus service to each temple you visit, with a total of 5 temples, totalling about 520RMB or $76USD - that's a lot to spend on a meshugga temple, but completely free of cost if you're a "Buddhist."

The ceremony began with a long wait on line to receive our Buddhist meal, meant to cleanse us of something-or-other, I'm not sure. What we got was a bowl of rice with odd vegetables on top. An old lady came around with a bowl of some cabbage-looking stuff, and smiled gleefully as she slapped a ladleful onto my already full bowl. To my surprise it tasted like cole-slaw, and I began to think of Ben's kosher deli, and I fantasised about that as I finished my cleansing bowl.

I was the 226th member of the congregation to be called up to receive my Buddha-pass. Inside the card was my picture with my new "Buddhist name" (法名), Guang An - Vast Peace (广安). I sat on a cushioned bench for kneeling (kneeler), waiting for the last person to be called. After an hour or so, we all turned around on our kneelers to face the head-monk of the temple, and the leader of this afternoon's sermon.

The sermon began simply, with some chanting of Buddhist mantras in Chinese and the soft banging of drums, cymbals, and triangles. Then he told us to kneel by yelling out the Chinese word for "pray", bai (pronounced: buy, 拜), then moments afterwards commanding us to rise, qi (chee, 起).

I stood there bai-ing and qi-ing for about twenty minutes straight. When it was all over, he told us to bai. We bai-ed as the monk instructed us in the tenants of Buddhism. At the end of his speech he asked if everyone understood. The tired-of-kneeling Chinese converts all proclaimed in unanimous chorus "We understand." To which the monk replied "Good, now repeat it to me." The ones who were paying attention tried to repeat it best they could, from the rest you could hear a collective muted grumble.

While we were still kneeling, it began to rain. There were those who were seeking refuge that sought refuge under nearby umbrellas and cloisters. The unhalting rain prevented the ceremony from going on any further, and Matt and I left with our Buddhist Convert Confirmation Certificate.

So I converted to Buddhism to save a little money - think of all the Hanukkah gelt I'd save if all I ate was Chinese cole-slaw.

I sing, you sing, we all sing

The memory of that day was a ginseng root. It began at the top and finished with the roots - nebulous and chaotic.

In order to start a successful independent tea business, we figured it would be best to get spices and ingredients directly from the growers themselves - that way we can make better deals and ensure the quality of their product.

Up in Changbaixian, Liu Baiguo was that grower. The owner of a local Chinese-medicine shop (中药房), recommended Mr. Liu as his farm was the closest to the city, but produced some of the best ginseng. Liu walked into the shop and asked for the ones who were looking for him. He seemed genuinely excited to be able to show his roots to two bright-eyed American entrepreneurs.

He led us out of the shop, out of the marketplace, and into his car - a police car that he got to keep after his work as a chinese border customs official. At his fields, he told us everything he knew about ginseng, how he inherited his fields, how there are 92 workers working for him, how he plants trees on the plots where the ginseng is picked because the roots use up all the nutrients.

This year's business wasn't exceptional because of the economic crisis, but "One day," Liu said, his eyes gazing at the open road ahead of him, imagining it as his own personal runway, "ginseng is going to buy me an airplane."

Liu dropped us off at the Violet Fashionable Hotel and asked if we had dinner plans. We said no, and he said he'd pick us up in an hour to take us out.

If you must know one thing about northwestern Chinese people, dongbei ren (东北人), know this: they are the warmest, most welcoming people in China, and when they ask you to drink with them, you better drink with them, and jeez can these guys drink.

We ordered four dishes at the restaurant:

1. Some kind of fish in a pollution sauce
2. Chicken livers in a spicy sauce
3. Fried crawfish
4. Probably some vegetable, I forgot this one.

and then he busts out the rice wine - brewed by the devil himself, Baijiu (白酒) is an awful drink.

The bus back to Baishanshi left at 7 in the morning, and we didn't want to get too drunk because it would be hard to wake up... like Liu cared at all about that. The lowly ginseng farmer runs out to his squad car, rustles around in the back, and within seconds emerges from the back, holding a prized bottle of Baijiu, cradling it like a prized chalice from which, in due time, we will quaff.

The Baijiu itself is about 120 proof; we each had 3 small glasses of this fire-broth. He yells out to the waitress in a medieval tone to bring us 6 beers - each beer is about the 24oz, the size of 2 longneck ISB bottles. This would not bode well for tomorrows journey.

Needless to say, we got pretty shwasted wasted hammered blasted plastered. At one point, his wife joined us because Liu wanted her to meet his newest business partners. Up in dongbei, the wild wild northeast, women know how to drink too. Liu had to leave because he was already feeling a bit sick, so she told us that she would "take [her] husband's place, and drink for him." Liu, I think thats cheating, but I love you, so it's cool.

We ended up in the public square, chilling out, drinking more beer - I can honestly say I lost track by this point - and doing more chilling. In order to avoid drinking any more, I suggested we get some ice cream. Matt ran off to the stand and bought them before Liu could pay. He's a big guy and insisted on buying ice cream for his new partners, I physically had to push this man back to his seat to let us pay for something on this ridiculous adventure.

At some point it started raining, and I looked around and the square was empty. We should have been sensible and gone home with the rest of the Changbaixian-ers, but we didn't. Instead we rented these little putt-putt electric go-karts so we could ride them around the empty square. Matt and I took turns chasing Mr. and Mrs. Liu around in our wannabe Cozy Coupes (I swear thats what these things looked like), then eventually got Liu to drive us back to the hotel.

We woke up, drunk, just in time to catch one of the most uncomfortable busses I've ever taken.

Until next time, Liu, you crazy ginseng farming sonuvabitch.