Mount Wilson Writers

My job as copy editor for Salem Press–publishers of encylopedic texts and other reference works–requires me to access information speedily while verifying the validity of the information I’m digging up. Sometimes I simply need to know a birth and death date of a historically relevant individual–often the information I need is what might be termed “vital statistics.” Rarely do I need analysis or critique of this information–although there is a level of subjectivity, however slight, in even the most straight-forward historical/biographical material.

At first I found myself reaching for relevant reference material on an adjacent shelf; soon I began utilizing the speed and convenience of the internet, using sites like Encyclopedia Britannica Online, because of its reputation for reliability. Eventually, I gravitated toward Wikipedia–the harbinger of a brave new world, if I can banally steal a Huxlian phrase.

Most internet users have discovered Wikipedia; some decry its lack of official, traditional forms of reference, others praise its sheer vastness of information. Whatever one’s opinion, there is little doubt that Wikipedia signals the next phase in human intellectual development–at least in terms of research technique. Internet sources are still viewed with skepticism in the academic world–I tend to agree with this point of view–but there is little denying that Wikipedia is onto something.

The most important aspect of this new type of information sharing is the paradigm shift that is represents: a redistribution of power. In fact, it seems to conjoin two seemingly disparate political philosophies: communism and democracy. Webster’s dictionary (I went to the hardbound edition for this, but I could have gone to merriam-webster.com), states that communism is a “system in which goods are owned in common and available to all as needed.” My assumption is that “goods,” at least in a 21st century context, is synonymous with information. Wikipedia is a form of communism in that it allows access for all citizenry–information can be made available and taken as need. If one flips the pages of Webster’s past “C” and into “D” one sees that democracy is defined as “a government in which the supreme power is invested in the people.” Again, it is the people as a whole who have the ability to shape Wikipedia (and the internet in general), and in so doing, have the ability to shape the nature of knowledge and information.

The Wikipedia argument is essentially an epistemological one (epistemology, put simply, is the study of knowledge). Who determines what knowledge is? Traditionally, the church, academic institutions, scientists, philologists, the military, or practically anyone with an official rank and title could make this determination; but rarely, if ever, has the nature of knowledge and the dissemination of information been placed in the grasp of the layperson. That’s not to say that which is deemed knowledge–or taken a step further, truth–by anyone with proper credentials is incorrect or distorted (by political motivations, etc.)–although it can be and often has been.

Because knowledge is also equated with power, the Wikipedia issue becomes a philosophical argument as well. Power is often held by those “in-the-know” and the rest of the populace buys into what those “in-the-know” know. Yet Wikipedia–and the general movement that underlies it–because of its egalitarian contribution to and distribution of knowledge, questions the basis of power. If you wanted to know details about a specific World War II battle, who would you ask? It might behoove you to ask a military historian–they’ve spent some time doing some research I would guess. But Wikipedia tells you that you can also ask a WWII veteran who fought in the battle in question. The veteran might remember “the facts” slightly differently, but his perspective is just as valid.

The main argument against something like Wikipedia is its lack of properly referenced facts and information–an integral detail that is slowly being remedied. I still won’t quote directly from the site–though it’s becoming my first lead. However, this argument extends beyond Wikipedia and the rapid internet-based sharing of information. Wikipedia’s lack of reference actually calls into question the nature of all information, and thus knowledge–again what constitutes knowledge, and who establishes the rules and contingencies?

It seems to me that knowledge is based on experience. Experience–whatever philosophies you adhere to concerning the nature of reality–is, in my opinion, undeniable. Sure, your experience may be unique, but this would constitute, at the very least, an internal knowledge. And I’ll go so far as to say that there are pervasive experiences that give humanity collective realms of knowledge–sorry post-modernists. If knowledge is based on experience, then Wikipedia doesn’t necessarily dismantle the criteria for what constitutes knowledge or how information is distributed, but it amends the criteria–it demands inclusion from an array of perspectives. If you want to know about a specific WWII battle, and the knowledge of both the historian and the veteran are at your disposal, I have a feeling you’ll want to hear from each one–you’ll want both perspectives in order to arrive at a more transpicuous view of truth.

The absolutely massive flow of information that is buzzing invisibly around us is overwhelming and, at times, seemingly incoherent. The inherent problem of the internet is that this information remains, for the most part, unverifiable. Wikipedia–and its brand of encyclopedia–suffers from this problem and so therefore remains “unreliable,” at least in any official sense. But I have the feeling that within five years its contributors will be viewed as reliable because they will be a combination of the certified and ordained and the battle-tested.

Then history might begin to unravel its mysteries–through its rewriting.

C. B. Rager

The on-going unruliness that began in the suburbs of Paris, and spread to other areas of the country, as well as other European capitals including Brussels and Berlin, inches a country closer to a policy that will soon be a dictum throughout the European and North American world- “nobody gets in and nobody gets out.” This is especially ironic, not to mention disturbing, when one considers recent French politicizing. France is known for its ostensible tolerance regarding a wide variety of issues, specifically toward the immigrants that have flooded its cities in the wake of colonialism. To seek one reason for the sudden outburst of frustration in the Parisian suburbs is as tenuous as connecting the causal event- the accidental death of two black kids- to the violence that followed. In fact, the seemingly illogical chain of events beginning with a paranoid retreat from authority and resulting in riots of hopelessness indicates that Western thought is unable to properly process the affair. And this is the real problem, just as the Western world is at a loss to decipher the logic that engages in and defends terrorist activities, so too do we struggle with the link between the sad fate of two young boys and the unrest of entire communities. The reality that both of these issues reveals is what I would term the underbelly of the Enlightenment. The rigid logical postulation of Descartes and Kant, among others, which spawned such brilliant thinkers and critics as Freud and Nietzsche, Doestoevsky and Darwin, is also the legacy of imperialism, colonialism, communism, and Hitlerian fascism. In a quest to construct codified nation-states and national identities exclusion of “the other” is a natural result. This is not original thinking on my part, any student of post-colonial and feminist theory will tell you the same. In a terrifying revelation, it seems we have created a muted double of our own logic, our own self-reliance and “godless” individualism. This same “logic” that seriously debates the use of torture, as our government is currently doing, seems to reveal the contortions and rubberized bends that Western ideology can undertake. The point is not to criticize the thought process that begat the Enlightenment and the last 500 years of Western history- the same logic allows me to communicate with you. But it would seem that the same liberal, or humanist, principles that engender my train of thought should also explore the possibility of another form of “logic.” This is not a support of Deconstructionist thought, though I find Derrida’s seminal theory both invigorating and agreeable, but rather a realization that a completely separate mode of thought has developed in human history that lies outside the bounds of Western ideology. But even that last statement indicates or supports the idea of centralized thought. The rift between East and West, specifically the Christian and Muslim worlds (there I said it), is a deep rivalry, one that seems to be justified by the Old Testament. As disheartening as it may seem, it may be an irreparable chasm. Issues such as culture and ideology certainly play a role in the separation. But is it possible that two sets of separate “logic,” lie on either blade of the clashing swords. And is it possible our logic is wrong? Maybe. And might theirs be wrong as well? Maybe. But this is not the problem. The issue is the fact that one logic, right or wrong, has held sway over the other- politically, economically, territorially. Thus, rioting in the streets of Paris, New York, or Berlin should come as no great shock- and this is not to justify or condone such activity. But it is time to admit that our colonial history has come to roost in our own back yards, and that we have reached the end result of the concept of nation-state. In a quest for individualism and self- sovereignty we have forgotten the most basic of instinctual principles- that mankind herds with those who look and speak the same. And thus the ostensible openness and freedoms espoused by the philosophical treatises of the Western world have not only brought “the other” to our doorstep but the hatred and fear of “the other” along with it. While we watch the events unfold in Paris and other European locales, only questions remain. Do the mute speak with fire? Is our logic an increasingly closed system? Is logic a mask that society wears to hide the true identity of all humanity-savagery and corruption? Or can we look at this as a Hindu might or as Herbert portrayed in his fourth installment of the Dune series (God Emperor)- that destruction is the mother of creation and vice versa?

The Los Angeles sun was hidden by a layer of morning clouds that finally dissipated in the afternoon heat. The weather seemed to be a harbinger of baseball apparitions outlined by the return of former homegrown talent to the field at Chaves Ravine. The battery of pitcher and catcher scheduled to start for the opposing New York Mets ball-club represented the disheartening reminder of arguably the two worst trades in the post-championship era of Dodger history. The Hall of Fame combination of Dominican pitcher Pedro Martinez and Tommy Lasorda’s godson, catcher Mike Piazza, emblematized and hauntingly reminded the Dodger faithful of the perceived ineptitude of nearly twenty years in Dodgerdom. Pedro Martinez, a marquee pitcher for over a decade, a Cy Young award winner in both leagues, and capable of being mentioned in the same sentence as other premiere pitchers of the era such as Roger Clemens and Greg Maddux, was traded by the Dodgers to the Montreal Expos for a disgruntled second baseman named Delino Deshields. Even at the time it seemed a risk, albeit calculated, a skinny unproven pitcher for an established infielder who could potentially help solidify a young and powerful homegrown team. Perhaps no one could have predicted the disparity that would come to define the two careers, but certainly the potential of Pedro was obvious. One only had to look to his older brother Ramon, and the success he was having with the Dodgers, to second guess the logic of the trade. While the Dodgers seemed more than willing to deal Pedro in an attempt to clear a hurdle toward a championship, the cornerstone of the young generation of home-made talent was anchored by a soft spoken catcher who could hit for power and average. As baseball historians look back through the annals of statistics, certainly Mike Piazza will be, and currently can be, viewed as perhaps the greatest hitting catcher in the history of the game. Regardless of his ranking, his offensive production resembles or surpasses Bench, Campanella, Berra. In what many regard as the grandest mistake in franchise history, in the final season of his contract, facing an off-season in which the Dodger ownership would inevitably be required to pay top dollar to retain the bat of their powerful catcher, Piazza was traded in the Spring of 1998 for a collection of players, Gary Sheffield being the only one worth noting. As one looks back upon the decade of the 1990s, the Los Angeles baseball club seemed poise to establish dynastic rule; five rookies of the year in a row, two playoff appearances, youth. The imperial dreams of all Angelinos crashed in upon the city on that dark April day. But the precedent had been set four years earlier when Martinez was cast aside to acquire a malcontent.

If the New York battery of Piazza and Martinez were stinging reminders of managerial indiscretion, the Los Angles battery of Brad Penny and Dionner Navarro represented a more tangible example of what appears to be a trend of questionable Dodger trades. Though only through the turning of time will the intelligibility of these two recent trades become apparent, the season of struggle that is 2005 highlights the frustration that many feel toward the Dodger hierarchy. Brad Penny was acquired in 2004 for, ironically, the heir apparent to Piazza, Paul LoDuca. A fan favorite for his unquestionable work ethic and skills behind the plate, LoDuca’s dismissal appeared incomprehensible at the time. And though Penny may grow into his role as the ace of a pitching staffed mired in mediocrity, his year old Dodger career has fluctuated between injury and flashes of brilliance. There is little argument that Penny is a solid pitcher and has had an above average stint in the big leagues, but fans remain ambivalent and most still question the thought process that leads to the trading franchise face. Navarro, the rookie catcher who, whether he realizes it or not, is the heir apparent to the unparalleled legacy of Dodger catchers, is finding the 2005 season to be his on-the-job training. Deemed at least a year away from playing everyday with the big club as the year began, he started in AA, rose rapidly to the AAA team in Las Vegas, and was summoned to the Dodgers when Paul Bako, the second string catcher, was sidelined for the year with a injury, and the inability of everyday catcher Jason Phillips to throw out even ten percent of the runners who attempted to steal on him began to cost the Dodgers games in the standings. Navarro was acquired when Shawn Green, another solid performer on and off the field, was traded to the Arizona Diamondbacks.

As the two teams faced off for a Sunday afternoon game, both squads still ostensibly in the playoff race, it seemed fitting that the visiting Mets pitcher-catcher combination, would be the remnants from an unfulfilled Dodger era. After all, the orange and blue colors that compose the Mets’ uniforms were taken from the ghosts that still haunt New York baseball. The orange was a tip of the cap to the New York Giants who departed for San Francisco. And the blue was taken in memoriam for the lost club of Flatbush, the Brooklyn Dodgers. Freud might deem the presence of Piazza and Martinez in New York uniforms on the grass of Dodger Stadium as the “return of the repressed,” but to me it simply represented the fallibility of fate. I felt the significance of this game early, the new breed of Dodgers composed by a Harvard grad, who never laced up the spikes professionally and who relied upon statistical evaluation as his ultimate mode of determining the net worth of a ball player versus the embodiment of unfulfilled baseball fantasy, Martinez in his first game at Dodger Stadium since he last donned a Expo uniform, and Piazza in perhaps his final Dodger stadium visit.

No Met pitcher has ever pitched a no-hitter and Martinez had been disappointed more than once in his own attempt to claim such a prize. Even his brother Ramon, whose career was solid but not near the level of Pedro’s, had pitched a no-no, in Dodger Blue no less with Piazza behind the plate calling the game. Martinez was pitching a masterful game through seven innings against his old club, allowing only one batter to reach first, offering a base on balls to center fielder Milton Bradley. The three zeroes that aligned themselves on the scoreboard served as indication of the Dodger’s ineptitude. In fact one of the intermittent highlights of the otherwise forgettable first seven innings for the Dodgers was a throw that Navarro made on a high Penny fastball to catch Miguel Cairo, another former Dodger prospect, attempting to swipe second base in the sixth inning. Martinez retired the first batter in the eighth and the historic atmosphere was bolstered by a palpable tension that settled upon the frustrated LA crowd. And then it was over, a momentary grasp at a revered baseball feat dashed by a ball hit off the bat of second baseman Antonio Perez. The ball carried deep into left centerfield as thirty-nine year old veteran Gerald Williams dashed toward the flashing white orb in an attempt to preserve history. As the outfielder neared the wall he turned his head, noticed the impending collision with the blue padded fence, closed his eyes, and extended his gloved hand. The ball and fielder smacked the wall simultaneously, the no-hitter squelched by a gap of six inches between the outstretched mitt and the abyss of blue. Perez slid safely into third base with a triple and the methodical Martinez performance collapse beneath the veracity of the brevity of a baseball in screaming flight and a man at full dash around the bases. And now the ghosts receded into the ephemeral atmosphere, the hall of immortals opened all afternoon gave way to the reality of this single ballgame: the Mets had a one run lead and the Dodgers had the tying run stationed ninety feet away. Like an early morning alarm clock blitzing a deepened sleep, the next batter, Jayson Werth punctuated the puncturing of a pitcher’s dream sending an inside fastball a dozen rows up into the left field bleachers, giving the ebullient Dodger ball-club a 2-1 lead. What seemed a frozen moment in time, a glimpse into immortality, sped to a truth that all veterans, including Martinez, eventually recognize; that baseball is a game of almosts and these moments of maybe shake the gods and ghosts of baseball from restless sleep. Martinez was able to retire the next two batters but the conclusion seemed starkly apparent. He did not hang his head nor curse his catcher. He did not look skyward or mouth the word why, but simple walked back toward the dugout hopeful that his team could tie the game in the top of the ninth inning.

Amidst the clamor of Pedro’s brush with perfection, the pitching performance of his counterpart had been overshadowed. Penny had allowed a handful of hits, but only one run on back to back doubles. And now with two runs supporting the foundation of his afternoon, Penny strode to the mound attempting to gain the first complete game of his Dodger career. In previous seasons he would not have been given the chance, for the ball would have been handed to Eric Gagne the Dodger closer. However, Gagne, out for the season because of injury, had rescinded his role to Yhency Brozaban, a pitcher with a blazing fastball but barely a full year of major league service. Brozoban’s catastrophic and atmospheric Earned Run Average had cost him his role as the team’s closer. Thus, the game which had been in the grasp of Martinez shifted its focus to the Dodger starter. Fittingly, it was the current Dodger battery that sealed the game. With one out the Mets were able to move Anderson to third and had two chances the tie the game and allow Martinez to take the mound for the bottom of the ninth. But on a check swing grounder to Perez at second base, Anderson came rushing home to test Navarro behind the plate. Anderson attempted to slide around the catcher’s tag, tripping up the home plate umpire. Stumbling backward but without falling, the official snapped his closed fist indicating that Navarro had made the tag atop Anderson’s head before the runner could touch home. And thus Martinez was plagued again by the almost of time, the split second decision making of Perez who instinctually fired home, the runner’s hand inches off target. And moments later the contest was over on a strikeout by Met’s pinch-hitter Matsui, the sun slowly crept toward the horizon in the dusty glimpse of a western afternoon. Werth leapt from his outfield position and seemed to fly toward Perez in comradely celebration. Martinez sat still upon the dugout bench frozen like winter raindrops. The baseball ghosts tapped upon his shoulder, he turned to look, and the moment was gone.

The bittersweet bellows of being perhaps brought perspective to Piazza and Martinez; perhaps not. And like the failed no-hit attempt, Dodger fans are left to ponder what might have been. Perhaps Martinez, driven by a quest for vindication, channeled divinity through seven innings. Like a scorned lover, Martinez was never shy about his disregard for the Dodger organization, betrayed by begetters, his career was always a validation of the erroneous nature of the fateful Dodger decision. Perhaps the homer by Werth indicated a final absolution for the Dodger franchise- free to finally liberate a phantasm of failed assessment. Piazza, ostensibly without the bitterness toward the family who nurtured and subsequently displayed disloyalty, went quietly that afternoon striking out three times, an after thought in a pitcher’s duel, overshadowed by his own counterpart in a post that he once manned. But certainly, when Piazza is immortalized in Cooperstown it will be as a Met and not as a Dodger and this is the most painful proof of injudicious imprudence. As Lasorda must know, as he sits upright in bed in the midst of darkness, this is the sorrow of almost. As both teams struggle to fill a playoff spot that neither will realistically occupy, the reality of the present burnishes its incontestable glare. A new regime man’s the sixty feet six inch space between the pitching rubber and the home plate pentagon, and like the haunting dreams that penetrate and obsess each generation of ballplayers, Piazza and Martinez still alive in the baseball present will one day join the echelon, haunted no longer by dreams of almost. And so for one August Sunday, the nightmares of summers past and passing recede from Chavez Ravine, converted into a future hope, that this generation, Penny and Navarro, will transcend the almost and touch eternity.

March 20, 2003
San Francisco

I awoke this morning to the sound of helicopter propellors thumping in the downtown sky. The air was tense, blue with spots of clouds, and I knew this day would be like no other. The anger, fear, anticipation were palpable. We are a country at war and my generation will never know a time of peace. These disheartening thoughts swirled through my mind as I began my short drive into downtown to start another work day. Yet there was nothing ordinary about my traversion toward my school. The public transportation stood still at Market and Powell Streets. Angry protesters linked arms and dared oncoming traffic to continue. Was this Bejing, 1989 or San Francisco? Though the protest displayed signs of peace, the vibrations in the air falsified this claim. The congregation reaked of violent resisitence. Looking up Powell Street a wall of human bodies stared across an invisible barrier toward a cable car stopped in its tracks. The car looked lonely, afraid, out of place. The driver released his hold on the cable rod and waited. He could do nothing else. Young men and women in gas masks paraded up the street holding upside down American flags graffited with words of distrust. It was no coincidence a bulk of protesters converged on Bush street. From the teachers’lounge on the second floor of our school building I watched the sunlight pulse in and out of the shadow of the circling ‘copters above. I sat in the middle of the room, feeling this represented everything about me. I was not delusional enough to agree with either side on this issue. To choose one dictator over another seemed a ridiculous notion.
Union Square was (and remains) barricaded, police in riot gear stoicly patroled the surrounding streets. Suspicious stares ricocheted off multicolored faces. A deep paranoia crept into my soul as I realized the future was now. What once was science fiction, fantasy, or satire (George Orwell, Frank Herbert, Aldous Huxley) seemed all too real. We have entered an age in which the common man and popular opinion have no power to thwart the greed of the empire. A time in which a cohesive, logical resistence is nowhere to be found (where the hell is MLK?)
I felt anger as I watched this protest, without a goal, without a leader, and with morals no loftier than those supposedly espoused by the powers that be. My anger was directed toward every protester that blocked my way to work, why not encirle the federal building? And it was also directed toward the smirk of greed that Bush, Cheney and the gang display with such pride.
So I suppose there isnt much to say except, let’s finish what we started. For this is but one battle, the first war, among many more to come.

Rager- reporting

TEA LEAF GREEN TOUR JANUARY 2002

Thursday January 3- Mr. T’s Bowl, Highland Park, Ca

This was a bit of a warm up gig for the band after taking a month off for the
holidays. Trevor went to Mexico, Ben to Europe, Alan to New York, Todd drove
across the country and Scott and Josh relaxed in LA. All were rested and ready
to begin the arduous lifestyle of the road.
Mr. T’s is a decent place with a good sized dance floor and stage. The
band played for about an hour and a half opening with “Ride Together,” an
appropriate song to begin the tour with. Most of the crowd, including myself,
sat in the darkness of the round tables that ringed the dance floor. Many of
them were experiencing Tea Leaf Green for the first time so they were content to
sit and get to know the boys. The band played most of their known numbers
including “Baseball Jam,” “Hot Dog,, “Panspermic Devolution,” and “Planet of
Green Love.”
All things considered it was an excellent way to literally get the show on the
road and proved to be a much-needed rehearsal for the following night at
Tailgators bar in Sierra Madre. The band finished off Mr. T’s at about 1am. A
small contingent stood near the stage to display their loyalty and appreciation
when the final song of the night, “Sex in the 70’s,” was announced.

Friday January 4- Tailgator’s Sierra Madre, CA

Tealeafgreen.com advertised this show as being a private party for an someone’s birthday party. Instead it became a private party for friends and
family of Josh and Scott, many of who had never had the pleasure of seeing the
hometown boys play before.
A sub-par cover band began the night’s festivities inauspiciously while the
crowd waited restlessly for the TeaLeaf to play. Soon the bar began to fill up
and spill out the side door into the parking lot. Let the truth be told that
from start to finish this was an all out party. The crowd was juiced up and
jubilant from the beginning and their anticipation wound to borderline hysteria
by the end of the night.
The band finally graced the stage at 11pm and opened the first set with
“Midnight on the Reservoir.” The mysteriously beautiful track that kicks off the
album of the same name. Trevor’s voice sounded crisp and smooth as the song’s
tale unfolded. The opening set was tailored for the masses. Therefore the guys
focused on their crafted songs instead of the jam (which would be unleashed
second set). “Papa’s in the Backroom” and “Jubilee.” both country inspired
tunes, followed the opening number. Other album songs like “Panspermic
Devolution” and “Hot Dog” were unveiled to an unaccustomed audience.
Though the sound in this particular club was less than spectacular the band did
its best to fill the sonic void. Trevor smoothly guided the band through the
first hour and a half of tunes. He flowed from one lead part to another causing
fans to stare at each other and smile. Whereas the second set was balls out
jamming, the first set contrasted by displaying the songwriting ability that the
entire band is known for. The opening set was for family and first timers; the
second set was for the fans.
The crowd was rowdy to say the least. The atmosphere whirled with excitement
and the sweet smell of chronic as an unknown patron sparked a spliff near the
front of the stage. After a break of about twenty minutes the band returned to a
sparser but more dedicated crowd of die hards and old friends. Beer splashed
onto the concrete floor, dancers whirled and wobbled, shirt came off, heads
shook, and smiles shimmered. The band began with a personal favorite,
“Gasaholic,” a jam that features Trevor on guitar and vocals. Next the band slid
into “Baseball Jam,” a song that increased the crowd’s intensity to a fever
pitch. The boys brought out the muddy, sloppy funk and laid it on so thick one
forgot it was four young white dudes pounding it out on stage.
While the crowd was reeling from the opening burst TLG effortlessly segued into
“Sea Monkeys,” a lighthearted fan favorite featured on the Midnight album. The
fans hollered with such enthusiasm that it was difficult to distinguish the band
over the roar of the audience. It was a small club but packed tight.
Another highlight of the second set was “Planet of Green Love,” a concert
staple that features Ben C on the mic. His love affair with the green herb
unfolds in his unique rap styling. PofGL is an unabashed ode to the stinky
green. It is a celebration of the potion. A song that features the refrain of
“grow it, pick it, pack a bowl, and hit it. If you ain’t with the herb than you
just ain’t with it.” This particular version featured a drum solo by the ice man
Scott Rager. With his high school buddies in the audience he let his sticks fly,
swiftly rolling from snare to toms. His solid backbeat was enhanced by the
rapidity of his wrists. At the end of the song, after the band reentered from
the solo, Scott received a heartfelt ovation as the crowd chanted his name. He
arose from the drum throne and tipped his bottle of beer to display his
appreciation.
Tea Leaf Green played until 2am. A good sized mob still clamored for more as
the last lines of the funk flavored “Insidious Worm” floated out of the
amplifiers. As the band stepped away from their instruments there was a mutual
respect between the musicians and their fans. The band retired to the RV but the
audience scattered about the premises smoking cigarettes, laughing and chatting,
drenched in the sweat of a rock n’ roll experience.

Saturday January 5- Molly Malone’s West Los Angeles, CA

The after party in the RV behind the bar lasted three time longer than the
band’s short and somewhat rushed 45 minute set at Molly Malone’s Irish Pub in
Los Angeles. At one point the RV was swaying precariously as a dance party
developed inside.
Molly Malone’s is a tight fitting venue. Ben and Trevor were nearly touching
positioned next to each other on the tiny stage. There was little space on the
floor as well, as dancers jockeyed for position. The LA crowd appeared to enjoy
the compact set in which the crew played most of the favorites including “Zoom
Zoom,” “Baseball Jam,” and “Papa’s in the Backroom.” The set allowed the gang to
display their ability to cram a throatful of jams down yer neck.
The show was not without a hitch however. Josh broke the high E-string on his
guitar and was forced to scamper backstage to retrieve his Strat. The mishap
gave Trevor the opportunity to indulge in an extended solo. There was hardly
time for one beer before the set wore down and the equipment relocated to the
backstage area.
The real story of the evening, I suppose, is the RV post-party. At one point
there were twenty bodies piled into our roving home. Beer was consumed in
quantities beyond count. It was the third successful gig in the LA area and it
was time to head into unconquered territory, the next stop being San Diego.

01/09/02

The last two nights both brought unexpected success. Surprising because the
band and crew were unaware of the influence and outreach of jambase.com. Monday
night in San Diego was one of unparalleled debauchery. Old friends contributed
to a wild after party at some fan’s apartment. Winston’s, the club in San Diego,
was by far the finest venue, with the best sound system, on the tour thus far. It
is situated in Ocean Beach, an area combed by beach bums and hippies. This show
also featured Josh’s mom in attendance, which gave the guitarist the extra
incentive to show off his stuff.
The boys played three separate sets to an eager audience of approximately 50
people. The briny air hung heavy in this beach town. The RV featured a select
group of Captain Morgan’s drinkers who got started early and didn’t quit until
long past the TLG was finished and packed up.
Some of the numerous highlights included the song “Freedom,” which in this
case, Trevor played guitar. He performed a sweet and simple solo that slowly
melted into Josh’s solo. Also, during the song “Tequila,” all four members took
an individual shot of the aforementioned juice while Scott kept time on the
high-hat for the duration of the shot session. Among the other songs in the set
the band played a rousing rendition of “Baseball Jam” and slick versions of
“Zoom Zoom” and “Beehive.”
The after-party included more alcohol and insanity. Jo Jo, a friend of the band
who always shows up in the most random of locales, was his usual out of control,
fun loving self. He and Todd W serenaded the party with raps, beat-boxes and
general scream of joy. The two were joined by a few others of us for a drunken
acappela jam session. It was long past 4am when I piled my tired bones into the
RV for some shuteye before heading out across the desolate desert landscape on
the long road to Phoenix, Arizona.
We arrived at the Emerald Lounge in the shadow of city skyscrapers, nearing
dusk. About 40 people packed into the lounge to check out the band that jambase
has so enthusiastically supported. One fan set up his taping equipment to
capture the band’s live sound. Another fan set up his video camera. As a part of
the jam scene, Tea Leaf Green is just one of the many bands that encourages the
bootlegging of their shows.
The first set the audience was greeted with some of the standard numbers like
“Sea Monkeys,” “Panspermic Devolution,” “Hot Dog,” and a long overdue version of
“The Garden.” The second set, as usual, had extended stretches of supreme
psychedelia featured prominently in the night’s version of Jubilee. The band
threw in a few songs not featured on the album such as “Mosquito,” “Beehive,”
“Insidious Worm” and the crowd favorite “Wetspot.”
The fans were appreciative of the performance most of them being entertained by
the band for the first time. The crowd soon dispersed though and before long we
were sleeping soundly in the RV that was parked in the lot.

01/11/02

We’re here in Las Vegas now after a successful three-day run through Arizona.
Last night in Flagstaff and the night before in Tempe were filled due in part to
the word of mouth buzz that TLG has slowly been generating over the last six
months.
Wednesday at the Sail Inn in Tempe set a weeknight record for attendance. An
estimated 150 people settled in for two sets highlighted by the first hour
medley of “zoom Zoom- Asphalt Funk- Insidious Worm.” A collection of tapers was
there to document the performance. Tempe is a college town the band would be
wise to revisit.
The chill breezes of Flagstaff quickly transitioned us from the desert to the
cool snowcapped peaks of this northern Arizona city. The Mogion Pub is located
just off the main street of brick hotels and barrooms. From our hotel room we
had a clear view of the mountains that spread shadows across the town. An old
steam engine train sat stationed at the depot across Route 66. The cold hamlet
was desolate yet refreshing. Another of the sleepy hometowns dotted along the
great American expanse.
The show itself turned into one of the better of the tour. The first set was so
mellow as to border on sluggishness. The group took the skeptical audience
through an hour-long mind bending journey. By the second set the crowd was
warmed and ready to dance. Hippies with dreadlocks, young girls, and old bearded
men spun upon the dance floor to the band’s trance.
Each of the three sets had a personal highlight. The opening number of “The
Garden Parts I and II.” The second set included a version of Bob Dylan’s “Just
Like Tom Thumb Blues” and the third set featured the Beatles “I Gotta Feeling”
as the closing number.
Following the show and fan mingling, we loaded up the equipment and headed for
a party at the house of a Flagstaff fan. The entire party was happy to see the
band and the guys were pleased to find such a following in a far from home
locale.
Now we wait for tonight’s show, the first of two at the Legend’s Lounge opening
for Mood Food and Vince Welnick. Our plush celebrity suite awaits us at the MGM
Grand. Needless to say the night and weekend are destined for indulgence. Hot
tub in the hotel room, slot machines and card tables, scantily clad women and
lots of booze. Sounds like rock n’ roll to me.

01/15/02

We find ourselves stationed in Tahoe City on the California side of the lake.
We climbed steadily upward from the desert plains on highway 95 in Nevada. Last
night we stayed in a RV park in a tiny strip of town named Mina. We patronized
the only open bar in town. The bartended gazed piercingly at the out-of-owners.
He looked at each of our ID’s and proclaimed “what are yaw doing out here all
the way from California?” Good question.
Back in Cali now, my maiden voyage to this grandiose lake situated like a bowl
of soup ringed in by the snow peaked mountains. It’s cold here but not nearly as
frigid as I expected. Nice and comfy inside the Coachmen. No show tonight. This
is the third day off after nine straight gigs culminating with two shows in
Vegas last Friday and Saturday.
Vegas is, of course, unlike any other city on the planet. It is an oasis of
bright lights and debauchery in a barren and lonely area of desert. We had the
pleasure of residing in one of MGM’s celebrity suites thanks to Alan’s players
club card. The TLG and Mood Food/Welnick were like a sidelight to the grander
mission that is a weekend in LV. The concept of time was eradicated from our
logical thought process. A party was underway at all hours of the day and night.
At one point I sat in Starbucks with a Budweiser in my hand and realized that as
my evening was drawing to a close, those situated around me had just awoken to a
new day and were sipping coffee to clear the cobwebs.
As far as gambling goes I broke even but others weren’t nearly as fortunate.
Ben and Scott lost $150 apiece, Todd $300, unsubstantial amounts to some but
certainly not to a greasy rock band. Vegas was Vegas. We all drank excessively
and spent far too much loot of slots and overpriced food. Our one solace from
the hecticness of the casino floor was our deluxe hotel room on the 16th floor.
It overlooked the strip with views of New York, New York set against the
background of the light brown Nevada hills.
Las Vegas is the type of place that one can only spend so much time in. The
strip is a glitz and glamour money-pit where hotel cameras watch your every
move. I am certain they had their eye on Todd. Not only was he visibly drunk,
his attire gave him a bizarrely humorous, disheveled look. He wore white and blue
striped painter’s pants and a vintage buttoned down shirt that jutted out the
base of his triangle patterned cardigan sweater. He carried in his right hand an
ice container complete with ice and 32oz. Red Dog beer cozied inside. His hair
was mangy and shocked on the ends.
The gigs themselves were successful. The band played the role of opening act
for their friends from Mood Food, featuring Vice Welnick on Keyboards, formerly
of the Tubes and the Grateful Dead. The first night the band played a short one
hour set of mostly b-sides like “Zoom Zoom,” “Jubilee,” “The Hands of Invisible
Organic Forces.” Trevor sounded especially smooth, his sweet voice resonating
above the roar of the other musicians. Josh, as usual, wowed the first time
audience with his guitar prowess.
The Legend’s Lounge is not much to look at. It’s located in a drab strip mall
northeast of the main Vegas drag. The inside has a roomy stage with a tie-dyed
background. It seems a strange place to feature such highly regarded bands but
it really is the only venue of its kind in the Las Vegas area. The crowd was
reticent at first but as the show unwound the audience warmed up to TLG as they
waited for Welnick.
The following evening a larger contingent occupied the floor space, packing the
club for free food, open bar, and the same two bands. There was little room to
move so, like it or not, the crowd was forced to watch the TLG performance.
Believe me, they enjoyed it. Songs like “Tequila,” “Baseball Jam,” and “Sex in
the 70s” got the dance floor moving and convinced the music lovers of the band’s
legitimacy.
TLG continues to blow away audiences with their powerful form of jam music.
Each and every night along the tour the band has been forced to win over those
in attendance and each night the mission has been successful. We now start our
next little run with a show tomorrow, Thursday in Redway, and Saturday in
Eugene, Oregon.
As I write Ben slaps his bass and Trevor chops vegetables for tonight’s meal.
The view from our position is breathtaking. The lake sits placidly, stoically
dark blue and a wind chill whips off the hillsides surrounding us.

01/20/02

Cruising in the Coachmen through Oregon to Arcata. The 199 is road-soaked and
moist with mysteriousness as we head southbound. The windshield wipers dance the
rain off the windshield. The fences mark the boundary of highway and pine
forest. Smoke swirls incessantly leaving misty marks on the vehicle’s interior.
A blue covered wagon stripped to its metal beams sits in the front yard of a
barn red house. Small towns break up the rainy stretches of hills and small
plots. Coffee shop and tire store, roadside inn. Between points. Here in America
spitting through the confines of sleepy cities.
We were in Humboldt yesterday. We made an all day run up to Eugene, played a
show, partied a bit, and awoke to the thump of rain on the roof of the car. The
last few gigs have been real mellow. The time slot in Eugene was too early,
opening for The People. The set featured songs like “Freedom,” “The Garden,” and
“Gasaholic.” The town seems cool enough, home of the Oregon Ducks. The club
stands across the street from the campus.
The gig in Redway was the first pothole of the road tour thus far. Redway is
another quiet one strip town along the 101 in southern Humboldt County. The
stars shone strong in the coolness of the northern California night.
Unfortunately the band had no stage, dead sound, and a sparse gathering. I felt
it was a well played show however. Scott, Trevor, Josh, and Ben performed like
it was a sold out audience.
Before Redway we made another lengthy jaunt across the heartland of California,
from Lake Tahoe. The show in Tahoe was perhaps the best yet on a tour that has
seen a successful run of audience attendance and approval. The band played 25
songs over three hours split into two sets. The dance floor was full of groovers
from early in the show until the group closed with “You Guessed It” at nearly
2am. The music was another sweat drencher of stomping rock in which Josh broke
four strings during the course of the day.
The first day in Tahoe was icy cold and snow covered the ground. Brent, the
show’s promoter, was kind enough to let us stay in his snowed in cabin. Tuesday
night, upon arrival, we went to a local karaoke bar and “The Hurricane” rolled
through in high style. Trevor delighted the crowd with an animated and heartfelt
renditions of “Brown Eyed Girl” and “Daydream Believer.” Josh and I pleased the
patrons with a double falsetto version “Staying Alive.”
Wednesday we awoke to the aroma of pot roast wafting thought Brent’s cabin.
Within minutes we were all gathered in the living room, mouths salivating in
anticipation. The best and only home cooked meal of the tour thus far included
the roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, eggs and English muffins.
This was my first visit to Tahoe, one of the most breathtaking spots I’ve been.
The air and water are so clean. The lake itself, situated atop the mountain, is
large enough to appear as a sea. The snow lay in thick blankets on the hills
rimming the lake. On Thursday we awoke to a steady snowfall that began in the
early morning. Alan got behind the wheel and negotiated the descent into the
California plains.
Here we are once again, rolling down an endless highway. Redwoods line the
peaks on one side of the road. The Smith River flows on the opposite side. It is
a quiet and damp Sunday all of us a little on edge from the cramped confines of
the road. But time eternally passes. So do our thoughts, emotions, the scenery.
Todd and Scott man the cab. Trevor sits reading a 1000 page book. Josh smokes a
cigarette in the swivel seat. Alan sorts papers on the rear couch. Ben sits in
solitary in the bathroom plucking his bass. I sit and stare at the moving trees
and mist grey skies.

01/22/02

The highlight of the Arcata gig, besides the unexpected snowfall, was the
surprise appearance by the legendary Jimmy Foot, Ben’s mentor and producer of
the first Tea Leaf Green album. The show was cramped enough for the Monday night
before the start of the school semester. Those in attendance caught a rare
glimpse of the band jamming with the Foot.
The last song of the first set was Jimmy’s turn. He joined the band for “Ride
Together” before breaking, and rejoined them for the second set to play
“Panspermic Devolution” and “Planet of Green Love.” Jimmy Foot played guitar on
and produced the original recording of this song written by Ben five years ago.
The set also included a version of “Precious Stone” and the pleasing closer
“Sex in the 70s.”

01/23/02

The hills spread green fingers slowly sloping to valley. Snow tops the
mountains in the blue sky haze many miles across the plain. Barren oaks shout
with crooked winter voices, stationed indiscriminately through the meadow strew
with volcanic rock, spewed by the gurgling gut of Lassen.
This is another region of California I have not seen before. A quiet stretch of
nature in the great spread of the state. Yesterday we drove from Arcata and
arrived in downtown Chico at 7pm before settling into a room at the Vagabond
Inn. Trevor, Ben, and Alan went out drinking and cavorting. The rest of stayed
indoors and watched the babble tube.
The tour is rapidly drawing to a close, though the band has a nice stretch of
gigs over the next few days starting with a show tonight at La Salle’s. Tomorrow
we head up to Tahoe again for an opening slot with Leftover Salmon.

… The road is bittersweet. The obvious perks come to mind. Freedom from the
constraints of a normal schedule is one. There is a definite thrill of unknown
when moving from gig to gig. Each stop holds a degree of mystery. The negative
aspects are also quite obvious; strange hours, a cramped car whose mood is bound
to fluctuate. Though I can do without most unnecessary things it really is the
small conveniences we take for granted that are most missed. Things like regular
showers, one’s own bed, home cooked meals.
That being said, life on tour with a rock band has been all I expected. I get
to see a great show every night. I get to see portions of the west coast never
trodden by my own feet, continually amazed at the grandeur of California.
Touring is a path that TLG is committed to and geared towards. Each member
realizes the difficulties ahead. Like AC/DC said “it’s along way to the top if
you wanna rock n roll.” TLG is dedicated to making a living out of music,
something most dream of but few attain. In my opinion the band is in the midst
of accomplishing this goal. Each show has added to the already resonant buzz
that surrounds the quartet. I believe it’s simply a matter of time before the
band is a national touring act. They will never be a top 40 pop machine,
although they probably could be quite easily. Thus the climb to the prize is a
much steeper ascent, but in the long run more fruitful and satisfying.

01/28/02

The soundman at La Salle’s gave us a shortcut up to Tahoe through the back
routes of the valley. The crew was ragged as usual but looked forward to
opening for Leftover Salmon at Alpine Meadows Ski resort. The snow still clung
to the ground and trees as we wound our way up the precipitous hillside, through
Donner Pass and into Trukee, where we stopped for a quick lunch and a bathroom
break. We were a bunch of stragglers near the end of the tour- dirty faces and
dirty clothes, dazed but certainly not confused. Yes, there was no uncertainty
about the mission, and there never is, Tea Leaf Green came to rock.
Tea Leaf Green was scheduled to play on the smaller side stage in the adjacent
bar which gave them the opportunity for exposure without the pressure of filling
the large hall required for the Leftover Salmon portion of the show. TLG started
at about 7:30 playing a blistering hour-long set that featured album tracks
“Panspermic Devolution,” “Hot Dog,” and Papa’s in the Backroom.”
Like any audience seeing a band for the first time, the crowd wore a mask of
skepticism for most of the set before gathering, clamoring, and dancing during
the last few songs of the set that featured the ode, Tequila. Being a High
Sierra show the band experienced the obligatory pre-show butterflies but soon
found their stride. Scott and Ben, with driving beats, propelled the melodious
noodlings of Josh and Trevor.
Leftover Salmon started soon after the boys set and a packed bar headed into
the main hall still reeling from the opening act. Salmon played an hour and a
half first set. They pumped their impeccable mix of country, bluegrass, rock and
blues, with a tinge of reggae to a crowd of over 500. During the set we filtered
backstage and took advantage of the spread provided for bands and crew, that
included vegetable lasagna, rolls, salad, with coffee for desert.
LS broke from their first set and agreed to allow the ensemble to play a quick
half hour set in between the Salmon appearance. TLG didn’t waste anytime, nor
could they afford to, playing the following four numbers; “Ride Together,” “I
Believe,” “Freedom,” and “Baseball Jam.” The bar was stifling once again.
After a cigarette break we all ventured back inside to catch the second half of
LS that had the audience enthralled. Jam bands don’t get much tighter than these
guys. After the show and subsequent audience dispersal we loaded up the
equipment, drove to the main parking lot, and shacked up in the RV. The seven of
us braved the snowy cold from the relative warmth of our portable home.
The next destination was Davis, followed by another show in Tahoe on Saturday
night, this time at Squaw Valley. The forecast had us worried. Rain in the
valley, heavy snow in the mountains. In the early afternoon we arrived in Davis
for a show at the G-street Pub. Davis has always been kind to the band thanks
to the UC students.
Ben expressed his concern about the potential turnout for the evening. Most of
the original Davis contingent has graduated, the down side of building a
following in a college town. By the end of the performance, however, it was safe
to say that TLG has outgrown the G-street. The crowd packed the tiny club from
the band’s opening number, “Just Like Tom Thumb Blues” through “Beehive,” “The
Hands of Invisible Organic Forces,” “Mosquito,” “I Believe,” to the closing
number of Bill Wither’s “Lean on Me.”
The RV after party was rocking again filled to capacity with band, crew, and
fans. As the night stretched into pre-dawn chill the band members settled in for
slumber at miscellaneous locations only to meet up again for the 9pm departure
time for Tahoe.
The rain continued unceasingly through the morning as it had for most of the
previous night. The rain swiftly shifted to snow flurries as we climbed the
Sierras. The snow fell in thick sheets, pelting vehicles and ruining the asphalt
road. The white shone brilliantly. The storm coated the trees with thick clumps
of ice. The snow fell from tree top, to limb to limb, plopping and akwardly
dancing to the forest floor. Icicles dangled from the roof of the RV. The peaks
were coolly blanketed in majestic stillness and silence. And still we drove
onward determined to make our 1pm load in time at the Bar One on the premises of
the Squaw Valley Ski Resort.
This is when the first bite of bad luck on the tour was fed to us. We arrived
in Trukee right on schedule and stopped at the Shell station to refuel. The snow
banks continued to pile high on either side of the road. The storm progressed
unabated. It was time to start it up again. Alan attempted to turn the car’s
engine over. Nothing. Just the slight muffle of the radio. We tried to jump the
car without success. We attempted numerous times to turn it over and restart the
RV. Finally we called AAA to get us out of the mess. Unfortunately, because of
the weather condition the tow truck was called to assist with an accident on the
highway.
We had another dilemma on our hands as well. The show was to start at 3pm. By
this point we were past our 1pm load in time. A long day was just getting
longer. Alan called Brent who was as befuddled as we were to determine a
solution. Finally a caravan of automobiles was deployed; a fan’s SUV, a
girlfriend’s car, and a Squaw Valley utility truck. Soon enough the RV was
unloaded, the alternate cars loaded, and we were off. Ten miles took us a good
30 minutes, slowly skating through the slush. The lodge was crammed with skiers
sipping cocktails while a blizzard raged outside and the band began to set up.
As it turns out the RV was fine. The gearshift had frozen in the drive
position. Therefore, when we thought it to be in park, in reality it remained in
drive. Time lost and frustration were the only side effects.
Once again TLG successful completed their performance. The band played two sets
between 4-7pm and another two sets from 9 to midnight. Amazingly, there was not
one repeat song. It was a special event for any Tea Leaf Green fan to hear the
group play some lesser known or rarely played tunes like “Saw Yer Mama” and
“California.” The gathering thinned as the afternoon gave way to night. But
full room or half full, the audience was enthralled once again. The lengthy time
period also allowed the band to experiment with some of the jams, a glimpse into
a rehearsal. Some of the highlights of the show were “You Guessed It,” “Precious
Stone.” “Warm Up Jam,” and “Asphalt Funk.”
When the show was completed the band and entourage, totaling 13 people, slowly
made the slippery drive from Squaw Valley to Brent’s cabin where we all crashed
for the night.
The morning was spent collecting thoughts, eating and watching football before
braving the weather and heading down the hill. We stopped at one of the more
scenic spots to snap photos of the band and then we were onto Mill Valley for
the final show of the tour. A dedicated group of friends came out to welcome the
band back to the Bay Area at the Sweetwater. Todd and I listened to most of the
show from the RV parked out in front of the club. We chatted about the tour and
what the future holds for TLG.
Another snow flurry accompanied us as we left Mill Valley and traipsed back
into the city across the Golden Gate Bridge.

01/23/02

The tour is officially over. The morning after the Sweetwater show in Mill
Valley. Now that it is all finished I feel as though I did an inadequate job of
my journalistic duties. I suppose I got too caught up in the shows, the parties,
the camaraderie to really capture the essence of the tour. And that is four
young souls spreading their vision, discovering the world grants endless
opportunities but it doesn’t hand them out. Though it may sound absurdly cliche,
this is what the band is undertaking, staking a flag into the soil of American
rock, making a name for themselves, and most importantly having fun.
The cities spin surreal when they flash by at a breakneck speed. A stop, a show
setup, and onto the next town. Touring is an endless barrage of lengthy drives,
strange sleep schedules, a suspect dining routine, endless bottles of beer and
swirl of smoke. One never gets bearings on the road. Faces seen and
conversations carried out blur into incoherency from one club to the next. It is
perpetual impermanence. There is an undeniable romanticism involved with the
squealing of tires as one town is left for another unknown. There are few
aspects commonplace.
Upon waking in the morning, a thick coat of sleep settled on face and in eyes,
the world offers endless possibility. Open and unseen road. Not knowing when or
where the next meal comes. More importantly the highs and lows experienced while
traveling are incomparable. And that’s precisely the dilemma of the path. If one
makes the choice to settle into normalcy there is a comfort, an understanding,
safety, but with it blandness, lethargy, and a general boredom perpetuated by
television and routine.
One the other hand, life on the road is a mixture of extremes. Glorious highs
brought on by the music and the substances that accompany it. As well as lows, a
melancholy, a loneliness, when passing through other people’s towns and lives.
At the moment I’m not at all certain how I feel. Suffice to say touring with a
rock band has been one of the most interesting ventures of my young life.

As my friend Mark and I zoom past Tiannaman Square on a late Saturday night, wrapped in winter coats, Mao’s Picture stares back at us through the red tint of the Forbidden City, and we realize, withold halting our political conversation, that the taxi may be bugged, that this email may be monitered, and that very soon we will be re-educated in some remote rat invested cell of one autonomous region or another. My Mao watch won’t save me and it seems that the only safe haven may be the MCdonald’s or Starbucks that is within view of the main square. China, and especially Beijing, is a place emerging from a sleep of social opression.
My week began with an overnight train from Shanghai, on a hard seat. The natives gawked and asked questions I couldn’t answer. And as the ride moved forward I grew more uncomfortable. The couple next to me, and I mean right next to me (no elbow room here), carried a package of food seemingly big enough to feed the entire Chinese army. Passengers without reserved tickets, slept in the aisles, newspapers for blankets. A woman at the end of the car carried on a 14 hour conversation with a friend seated next to her that I could hear from the other end of the train car. What they could be discussing with such fervor at 4am was beyond me. And men smoked chains of cigarettes pacing up and down, eyeing the toilet for a time that the line might slacken. This is China, pushing and shoving in endlessly stalemated lines.
Mark, teaching English here, was due to meet me at the Beijing train station, however as I emerged into the mist of the morning, a million faces met mine, but not his. I called him on the cell phone of a man I met on the train, and when he answered it was as if he didn’t recognize my voice. It was his birthday party the previous night, and in Asia that means your collegues and students are not content until alcohol seeps out the pores of your skin. He slept through his nine oclock alarm and as i spoke to him it sounded as if three frogs were lodged in his throat. In the end he told me to take a taxi, and this was best, there was no need for two of us to fight the crowd.
Another birthday party was scheduled for Saturday evening so we tried to nap in the afternoon to refresh both of our bodies. But being old friends, prone to philisophic banter, we talked the afternoon away until the reserved dinnertime. I was quite impressed with Mark when six woman and only one man showed up for the evening’s festivities. Three of the ladies were from Xinjian, the Muslim popualted western autonomous region that borders Afghanistan. This area, like Tibet, was added when Mao came to power, and though the residents do not look Chinese in the least, the Chinese government claims the territory as its own. The point is, the restaurant that we attended served Xinjian fare and included a performance by musicians and dancers. I couldn’t believe I was in China but rather envisioned myself somewhere in Central Asia or the Middle East. During the performance Mark was challenged by one of the dancers to summersault, twist, and perform other such contorted movements. For his trouble he was rewarded with a cap that looked like a Mororocan fez. At the end of the performance all in attendance were encouraged to dance on the tables. One Iranian man, who was making himself quite visible the entire evening, fell off the table but quickly rebounded to dance with us.
Sunday was installment number three of Mark’s birthday celebration and coincided with the arrival of my friend Ben from Korea, who I began my trip with in Thailand. He planned to stay three days and with him he brought my heavy coat. I was greatful for that. Two days before I was clad in shorts and a tshirt. Arriving in Beijing I jumped far too rapidly from summer to the prewinter. After meeting Ben at the airport with two of Mark’s students we journeyed to the center of town, Tiannenmen, and ate the world famous Beijing Duck, made to each order. The walls of the restaurant were lined with famous customers from George Bush to Fidel Castro, eating duck in military fatigues. I knew the dinner would be expensive, but I also knew that Mark’s student would pay for it, so I grubbed down. The duck, rolled out whole on a silver platter, is eaten with vegetables wrapped in a thin tortilla. The students marveled at the amount I consumed. I was on a mission to fatten myself up.
Monday was reserved for the Summer Palace, with its central lake, pagodas, and temples. This is where I bought my Mao watch, his right hand counting seconds in the motion of a wave. The vendor asked for 280 Yuan (about $30), I offered 50 and after a bit of bargaining attained the prize at my price. I found it quite ironic that by the end of the day Mao was no longer waving and the Chinese watch making ingenuity had failed. Regardless, it is a worthwhile souvenir. For dinner Mark took us to a restaurant within walking distance of his house. He removed his small spiral bound pad with lists of foods and ordered mutton, vegetables, an orange flavored sweet and sour whole fried fish, and a few beers. A table of men sat near us drinking and screaming, a scene that I have become all to familiar with in Asia but one that wouldn’t fly in even the rowdiest of American restaurants. Its not easy to hide a white face in Asia and they soon spotted our table. The came over to drink our beer, hug us, shake hands unceasingly, and finally break Ben’s glass by dropping it on the floor. The waitress gave us a free beer for our trouble. After dinner we walked to the basement bar beneath Mcdonalds listened to Guns and Roses and Bon Jovi (not our choice, but it could have been) and spoke of religion and the issues that surround it.
On tuesday Mark was required to teach in a suburb thus Ben and I ventured to the Great Wall. The Badaling section of the wall was restored in 1984 and therefrore is the most heavily touristed section. We took pictures of ourselves at the landing where many a foreign diginitary has also been photographed over the years. We began our ascent at a little past nine and the Chinese tourists clad in identical ill fitting ballcaps were already beging to fill up the area. The day was cloudy and cold, but by the time we reached the 890 meter (about 3000 feet) peak, i had stripped off my coat and sweater, panted and sweat. At the top Ben and I were more of a tourist attraction then the wall itself and every Chinese tourist within spitting distance wanted to snap pictures of us. Im sure they would return to their homes to show their pictures of the wall and the strange white faced creatures that they had met while there. The longer Im in Asia the more I feel like a zoo animal or freakshow attraction.
Ben departed for Korea the next day and I spent Halloween alone waiting for Mark to return from Changping on Thursday. We were gearing for our weekend trip to Ti Shan, which can only be done justice with another lengthy and yawn inspiring dissemination.

Shanghai, The Whore of the East or The Paris of China, choose your favorite moniker. Of course, the debauchery of olden days was obliterated by Mao’s communist regime more than 50 years ago. It took a 25 hour train ride from Guilin to finally get here. I purchased a soft bed for the arduous ride to help smooth the travel time. I sat in my bunk with three Chinese who shared tea and bite size candy with me and attempted to converse with absolutely no luck. A couple in the adjacent compartment gave me a tear drop shaped grapefruit the size of a baby’s head that I subsequently shared with my own bunkmates.
I spent many hours staring from the train car and dreaming, watching the farms approach and fade, rice stalks bundled in piles. We zoomed past swiftly flashing foreign faces and faded weather-beaten orange houses. Children waved from the fields as the express train spit into the future at drastic speeds. I sat in the dining car and romanticized the early days of train travel, imagining myself amongst road-weathered baseball players chomping cigars and playing cards, me with the day’s scorecard in my felt cap, pen and writing tablet in the ready position. But I had to remind myself that I was in China, which wasn’t difficult to do. Men and women encircled, jabbered the gibberish of language unknown to me.
I shared a taxi to the hotel with a young Israeli couple I met on the train. The youth hostel that I am currently calling home is a converted hotel of a bygone 19th century era that once housed such distinguished guests as Albert Einstein, Scott Joplin, Thomas Edison, and Ulysses S. Grant. I hear their ghosts creak upon the old wooden floors and squeak across the polish of the gigantic art deco lobby. Now, the former suites have been stuffed with dorm beds but the charm of the past is still evident. The gilded fireplaces remain and the wooden balconies lend a view across the Haungpu River.
Shanghai itself is a mix of two eras, both of western influence. The river cuts through the two worlds leaving a stark juxtaposition. On the western bank is the area known as the Bund. The architecture is European in design. Both the French and English controlled the port of Shanghai shipping silk, opium, tea, and other goods and the Bund was their district. This area was later occupied by both the American and Japanese navies. During the period of English occupation the Bund was home to the decorative Customs House, brownstone banks, villas, and lavish hotels, all of which still stand today, though the red flag of China flies conspicuously atop each of the buildings. Also during the heyday of this era most of the area posted signs that read “No dogs or Chinese allowed.” Today, The Bund is one of the two defining characteristics of the city and tourists from all points snap pictures of the buildings that represent a heady era full of intrigue, chicanery, and luxury long since passed. From the opposite side of the river, the facade of the Bund certainly resembles the waterfront of the Seine. And when the whipping wind strikes the shore in the evening I cant help but be reminded of San Francisco.
The east side of the Haungpu is the new city and, the Chinese hope, the first great financial center of the 21st century. Only ten years ago this area was a patchwork of farms and outlying slums but metamorphosed into a futurist skyline. The most visible symbol is the Oriental Pearl TV Tower, the largest in Asia and the third largest in the world. On the viewing deck housed in a purple sphere Chinese push and shove for the resplendent view. Just down the boulevard is the sight of the third tallest highrise in the world, only outclassed by the Petronus Twin Towers in Kuala Lumpar and the Sears Tower in Chicago (also now surpassed by the 101 building in Taiwan- ed). For some reason this observation deck is far less crowded yet houses perhaps a finer vantage point for viewing the entirety of the city. The lot next to this monstrosity is the beginnings of what will be the tallest building in the world. Though at the moment construction has stagnated, mostly based on the IMF financial crisis of 1997 that is still being felt across Asia. So now the half finished giant stands sleeping, awaiting the funds to reawaken the project.
Yesterday, after enjoying the sights of western influence and indulgence, I wandered into the district that is known as the old city, where the Chinese have resided for many years. As I ambled down the dusky street a cacophony split my ears. Fish peddlers draped their goods from clothes hangers and shouted prices at pedestrians. Vendors sold everything from fruit and nuts to live turtles. Bicycles screeched and sped, ringing bells and barely avoiding accidents. laundry hung drying out of second story windows. And the red light emanating from lanterns cast an eerie glow upon the street. Children grabbed my arms and old men laughed at the sight. Women argued in an indecipherable tongue, shook and pointed fingers. My legs were wobbly from a day of pounding the streets and the colors and sounds swirled in front of me as if in a dream.
Though Shanghai is long past its storied prime, a certain charm still exists down the back alleys and waterways. And if one isn’t careful its easy to imagine the dapper businessmen, gangsters, and coolies, running rampant through a once thriving city. But alas time moves forward and Manhattan, Paris, London, and Shanghai of the 1920’s and 30’s is but a quixotic memory. And time pushes on for me too, onto Beijing tomorrow.

October 2001
We decided to take a weekend journey and a break from the chaos of Beijing. In reality chaos is impossible to flee in China, one point three billion residents and all. Mark and I debated about exactly where we should spend the two days because the distances between relevant or intriguing sights in China are unbearable lengthy. Travelers which I had met along the way suggested certain points of interest but the proposal of Mark’s students appeared to be the best option. On Thursday night we booked two hard sleepers for an overnight journey to Jinan, seven hours south of Beijing by train, the home to Tai Shan mountain, the birthplace of Confucius.
The train was scheduled to depart at 10pm on Friday night and we whiled away the meantime sipping beers in a Korean restaurant adjacent to the central station. I was nursing a head cold and Mark felt the genesis of what would later turn into dysentery, a bacterial infection that has been known to incapacitate entire troops (More on this unfortunate occurrence later). But at the time, we were eagerly looking forward to ascending another peak. Tai Shan is considered the number one mountain in China apparently based on its religious significance, and throngs of natives flock to the peak to pay reverence. The two of us, with a certain degree of vanity, were hardly intimidated by the 1600 meter (approximately 5,000 feet) peak. As the adventure unfolded I lamented my nonchalance.
The train ride was painless, and though Chinese talked loudly beneath us, we were both able to fall asleep on our respective cots by 11pm. My sleep was so sound in fact, that i awoke with shock as the attendant shook my sleeve and warned us of our arrival in a half hour. I shook the cobwebs from my dream clouded eyes, hopped off the top bunk, brushed my teeth, and sat staring at the dark countryside forever fading. The air was cold and the sun still slept as we made our way down the station corridor towards the ticket office to purchase return seats before we traipsed off to the trail. Much to our chagrin the train returning to Beijing that night was full, forcing us to buy standing room only tickets, a circumstance neither of us was looking forward to. Chinese trains are harrowing enough with a seat, the thought of standing for seven hours on an overnight train after a hike was nearly unbearable. But we tucked away the the reality of our return and immersed ourselves in the present task at hand. We hired a minibus to take us to the trailhead and by 5:30 am we were hiking.
The trail was already buzzing with activity, though the shops and restaurants were still closed. Overnight hikers sauntered down the hillside barking in the thin light of a new morning. Elderly Chinese practiced Tai Ji along the trail, swiveling pelvises in the frigid air of the foothills. Mark and I trudged slowly, both of us feeling slightly sluggish, realizing there was indeed no need to hurry. After about fifteen minutes we stopped for a light breakfast of muffins, fruit, nuts, and water with the light of the sun gradually penetrating the darkness.
As we continued on it was apparent that a young man clad in a jogging suit was following us and desirous of our attention. On his handheld transistor radio English news could be heard. We were aware he was interested in us and not in a way we found becoming. We slowed our pace to allow him to pass but he dawdled. Once he was past us we stopped for a rest to lose our suitor, but instead of continuing on he pretended to look inquisitively at an old rotten tree. Finally our hint was taken and he pressed onward. But this would not be our last encounter with the fancy boy.
Though the trail began to show signs of life it was still relatively quiet as we trudged upward. None of the vendors or hawkers were out in force and we found this leg of the journey to be quite pleasant. After about an hour and a half of our ginger pace we sat a moment to rest in front of a temple where large joss sticks fogged the air with a pungent aroma. From this vantage point we spied a cluster of buildings less than a mile a way. I couldnt believe that we had already neared the summit, it wasnt yet 8am. We scoffed at those that told us climbing to the top would induce crawling, we were almost there. The grey steps grew steeper and i huffed to the landing that we had seen from the temple below. Early morning hikers stood snapping pictures, drinking tea, and staring at the monstrous peak that loomed in front of us. It was at this point that I realized with tired legs, that we were only halfway up the mountain and the most treacherous leg was certainly ahead of us.
It was here that we once again met up with our admirer who inquired of me “did you like the coming?” No response. He soon danced away to leave Mark and I to discuss the rest of the climb. It was clear the trail shot straight up the gorge on the right side of the peak, while a suspended cable car cut up the left side. We agreed that it was necessary to hike up but perhaps tram it back down. The air grew colder as we ascended and the peak loomed large in the distance. at the halfway point we realized that it was possible to take a bus up from the bottom and then hike the additional three miles, thus explaining why the first half of the trail was relatively quiet.
It is important now to take a step back to look at the scene and the reaction of the Chinese when they see the only foreigners in the vicinity. Stalls hawking confucian goods, drinks, and other knick knacks lined either side of the trail. And, as at all the tourist attractions I have been to in China, it is apparent that the vendors and the other Chinese know very little English. Before we knew it we were being “Hallo”ed into oblivion. Their knowledge of the language halts at about that point. But not the vendors, they can throw in a few extra words to really entice you, varying upon what goods they are hawking. The most common is “Hallo, look, Hallo,” as if the extra hello will instanteously convert an uncertain buyer. Other catchy phrases include “haloo, drink, hello,” “hello, bike, hello” or if they are selling Mao’s little red book of sayings the sales pitch is “hallo, Mao, Hallo.”
From the halfway point to the summit, Mark and I ran a gauntlet of “Hallos” in all shapes and sizes until the aggravation reached a boiling point. It was cold, it was steep, and the entire mountainside sat in frozen time watching the two Americans slowly make their way up the mountain.
A bit past the halfway point a man stood holding a small costumed monkey in his hand. I tried to snap a picture but he (the man not the monkey) told me i had to pay to snap a photo. So i handed over the 5yaun ($0.60) and posed with the lovable primate as Mark took the picture. at least the monkey kept the “hallo monkey on leash, hallo” to himself, though by the look on his face i knew he was thinking it.
It was about this time that we ran into our effeminate devotee again and he zig zagged up the stairs from left to right mocking our struggle. He would occasionally glance back and shoot us a filthy toothed smile. for once I was pleased when another vendor accosted us pushing fake coins and ivory horns in our face. The man clinked two coins to together and in Chinese asked us “Sounds good doesn’t it?” Mark responded in Chinese “It sounds bad.” Next he asked if we liked the ivory, Mark responded in Chinese again “it’s terrible, I’ll throw it over the cliff!” To which the fellow vendors hopped, laughed, and hooted in sheer delight. Even the vendor himself let a smile surface to his face, he knew the goods were fake he just never figured a foreigner could tell him so.
Finally we found ourselves at the summit, sweat soaking us to the bone (not good for a cold in hindsight). I was exhausted having exerted far more effort than I thought would be necessary. I didnt think it would be a walk in the park but i hadnt counted on the steepness factor. At the top I stood shivering as a crowd buzzed around the red temple lighting joss sticks in sacrament to Confucius. All I could think about was a hot tea and somewhere to dry the sweat off my shivering limbs. A wet mist hung at the summit and the view of the valley below was obscured. Incense smoke mingled with the cloud layer. We found a tea shop and sat ourselves down at about 11am. The tea quickly warmed my shivering bones and the subsequent bill made me even hotter. 30 Yuan for two cups of tea, only four dollars for you rich Americans out there, but remember, a bottle of beer only costs 2 Yuan ($0.25) here.
Mark and I made our way to the putrid smelling bathroom to change out our wet clothes into long underwear, sweaters, and dry socks. The weather didnt lend much of a respite, the cold made it unbearable at the top, and after a lunch of fruit and muffins, we decided to take the cable car back down to the halfway point. We shared the cab with a Chinese couple with horrid teeth. Mark did his best to converse with them as i stared down into the valley below.
The most comical moment of the adventure greeted us after we stepped off the cable car and sat on a stone wall for a bit of a rest. A pudgy faced, bespectacled older man took one glance at us, didn’t say “Hallo,” but instead immediately burst into a hearty laugh. He didnt look back but continued to chuckle as he shuffled out of sight and down the hill, his laughter echoing across the hills. This sent mark and I into a fit of hysterics, not exactly sure why he had reacted as he did. As the sun finally emerged in full force, the air crisp with mountain smells, we realized this was the purest moment of the day. It lifted our spirits and we smiled and chuckled the remainder of the descent.
We reached the bottom, our legs and feet sore from the stomp, and immediately found a small restaurant to eat a second lunch of msg drenched vegetables, syrupy pork, and paper thin and paper tasting bread, with a beer each to wash it down. At this point it was nearing 3 oclock in the afternoon and we decided to head back to the train station to see if we could catch an earlier ride home. As luck or divine providence would have it there was a 3:3o train back to beijing, and though we would still have to stand, it was certainly better than waiting another 8 hours for our originally scheduled journey. We would be back by 11pm and this kept our attitude positive.
We sat ourselves on newspapers between cars in the crowded train and within a half hour, as the train began to clear, we had seats with a small table. we played cards, drank beer and laughed about the compact though arduous journey of the day and previous night. This was the highpoint and unfortunately it spiraled from then on. After a brief nap I awoke with a migraine headache compounded by the Chinese music, banging and wailing, screaming from the speaker above my head. Mark felt in full force the onset of the nasty dysentery which incapacitated him for the following four days. we wracked our brains in an attempt to figure the source of his ailment. Perhaps he had acquired it in xinjiang, but finally we realized that it had been laying dormant since his summer trip to nepal waiting to spring at the most inopportune moment. For a few nights I sat up in fear for my friend’s life as well as my own health.
At the moment the antibiotics seem to be accomplishing the task and Mark’s physical and mental makeup is stronger than I have seen since the fateful weekend trip. we joke that none of our journeys are without debacle, from camping trips to cross-country attempts, and for the first time it seemed that we had finally rid ourselves of these demons. But, for the time being, chalk up another adventure gone awry in the ambivalent and unbiased face of nature.

Currently I find myself located in Yangshuo City, Guangxi Province. If you’re scrambling to find it on the map, don’t bother, though it is situated near Guilin, which is a bit easier to locate. The landscape here is surreal and I think best surmised by the Lonely Planet guide as they refer to the innumerable camel-hump hills as “Dr. Suessish.” These peaks vary in size and shape and the city of Yangshuo is encircled by them like a spiked dog collar. It’s difficult to draw comparisons or find an adequete metaphor to relay the visual effect of the surroundings. Many of the hills resemble the cartoonish strructures of the Spanish architect Antonio Gaudi whose work is strewn about the city of Barcelona including his world reknowned Cathedral Sagrada de Familia. Many of the other peaks are in close correlation with the arches in southern Utah or the buttes of the western desert states.
I arrived in this visually breathtaking region after a 15 hour overnight train ride from Guangzhou and a two hour train ride from Hong Kong. Once I was safely settled in my guesthouse I walked next door to the cafe to have a cup of coffee. The owner of the shop spoke superb English and he promised to show me the cities authenticities. I told him I would do some wandering of my own but return in the afternoon to join him for a tour. I headed down the main drag and stopped into a barbershop to shave my head and beard, bought a pair of sunglasses, and continued my jaunt down the lane. I came upon the Li River, which snakes through the maze of misty bluffs and is famous for its cruises from Guilin.
In the early afternoon I returned to the cafe and told my new friend “Jacko” that I would be honored to have his guidance. Firstly he took me to a quiet tea shop on the banks of the river where old men slowly sipped tea, smoked tobacco pipes, and played cards. We sat on the floor of a private room and ordered fruit tea, good for the stomach Jacko informed. The waitress brought the tea in a glass container filled with tea bags and fruit slices. For the next hour we sat calmly shelling sunflower seeds, drinking the tea out of ramekin size cups, and listening to the mysteriously mournful Chinese music played from the speaker above our heads.
After teatime Jacko took me to a Chinese massage house for another hour of relaxation. I was curious to compare the Chinese with the Thai massage that I grew so fond of during my stay on the island of Ko Samet. In the end, though the Thai massage is considered to be the finest and most disciplined form, I must admit I found the Chinese version to be more to my liking. The Thai massage is centered moreso on the lower body as well as muscle stretching, which though invigorating, can also be quite painful. The Chinese massage focuses on the head, neck and back, more atune to my taste.
Jacko drove me back to my hotel on his motorbike. I took an evening shower before dinner then settled myself into a couch in the common room of the guesthouse to read a book. A stocky, bespectacled, chubby faced Chinese man sat across from me and from his demeanor it was obvious he itched to say something to me. Finally he said “You like make friend?” Sure, why not. His English was visibly limited but his intentions were noble so I felt almost obligated to invite him out to dinner with me. Down the main boulevard we ventured and sat down at the cleverly named restaurant of “Minnie Maos.” We ordered stuffed hot peppers, beer-battered Li River fish, and two bottles of Chinese beer. It became apparent as our meal wore on that my Chinese friend had either never met a westerner or knew few. He lavishly bestowed gifts upon me; a designer pen, a pack of unopened cigarettes, and a metal plaque the size of a baseball card with Chairman Mao’s mug on it. At this time I could only think of John Lennon’s words “If you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you’re not gonna make it with anyone anyhow” (Revolution).
It was about this time that I noticed the beautiful young waitress who was working the other tables. I asked my friend to call her over and he did so. I wanted him to translate but as it turned out she spoke better English than my new friend. We began talking about miscellaneous subjects and I could feel my friend slowly growing perturbed because he could no longer decifer what we were discussing. Eventually Rong (the waitress) and I agreed to go for a bike ride the following morning out to Moon Hill near her residence.
We set out in the early morning fog, down a rocky dirt path surrounded by the dizzying sight of the dreamlike bluffs. In front of us rice paddies stretched and workers threshed the dry stalks. We passed old hunchbacked men with straw hats leading water buffaloes to graze. We wisped through tiny villages where the men stared at us and old ladies balanced scales of vegetables on shoulders. After about two hours of winding our way through the bizzare and fantastic countryside we made it to a main road and spied a sign that told of the Buddha caves. We stopped to investigate.
The sign, in English, said that these caves had just recently been discovered and subsequently opened to the public for exploration. I had the sneaking suspicion that the sign had been there for about ten years. Nontheless the two of us decided to enter the depths of the cavern and have a look around. The opening was quite large but soon we found ourselves crawling through the muddy passageways down towards the underground river that we could hear softly rambling below us. I must admit that at this point I was clastrophobic and wondered if I was going to make it all the way. My breathing became heavy and sweat dripped from my brow. I took a gulp of my water and shook myself from my slight fear. I also reassured myself by thinking that if for some reason I did get stuck down here at least I was with a beautiful woman. She put me to shame in the hole, quickly rappelling down ropes and monkeying down ladders to the river below. I gingerly scaled the muddy rocks and prayed I wouldn’t slip or spill, which I have been known to do on more than one occassion. Finally we were both down at the base, where we removed our shoes and headed a quarter mile down the underground river. I envisioned myself as the mad professor in Jules Verne’s “A Journey to the Center of the Earth.” Eventually we climbed back out of the cave, my courage of course growing stronger as I reached the end, realizing I never really had anything to fear.
At this point, back in the light of day, we agreed it was time for lunch. Rong and I cycled another ten minutes to her family’s farm where she began to prepare the noontime meal. As I sat in the dirt floored living room sipping tea I watched her meticulously peel the vegetables under the garden spicket. With me in the living room sat her bald-headed uncle who offered me an orange with a grunt. He sat himself in the opposite corner of the room rolling, licking, and smoking a chain of cigarettes. He laughed to himself and smiled at me possibly remembering a time when he didn’t even know white faces existed, or perhaps wondering why his niece would bring me to the farm.
Directly adjacent to the living room was the buffalo pen and I heard it grunt and snort, the smell of its manure pungent in the crisp country air. Rong spent nearly an hour cooking our meal and by the time it arrived I was good and hungry. The lunch consisted of three dishes, green beans, bean sprouts, and a sort of stir fired squash, as well as the obligatory bowl of rice. Her uncle watched us from his corner and eyed our meal with envy. After lunch and a brief rest we were back on our bicycles and headed for Moon Hill. This is perhaps the most popular attraction for tourists in the area and is a striking view from any vantage point. The hill’s name refers to the cresent shaped arch which sits high atop the green mesa. It took nearly 40 minutes to ascend the peak, a relatively short but strenuous hike. From the top, hilly lumps spread toward the horizon and patched quiltlike fields glimmered in the foreground. I took the time to snap some photos and marvel at the unreal scenary.
BY two pm we were back on our bikes and headed for the city of Yangshuo. Villagers waved and shouted at us as we rolled by, geese chuckled on ponds, and men raked dried rice. Mobs of people on bicycles, the favorite mode of transport in China, teemed through the streets. And finally we were back in the city. I thanked Rong for her kind guidance as she ran off to get ready for work and I dragged my mud caked body the the local bar for a pint.

All things considered and accounted for, my week in Malaysia was a worthwhie and successful experience. I was so impressed with the country in general that, if there is a next time, I would skip Thailand and head straight for Malaysia. I arrived from Bangkok on a torential rainy Saturday evening and booked a five star hotel to lick the travel wounds aquired in Thailand. This was a posh spot, in the heart of Kuala Lumpar, with hot water, a television, and room service. I can see a green tint of jealously quickly rise up your collective faces as you read this. “Hot water!” the echo of your dismay rings across the Pacific.
On Sunday I walked to the sights of the city which, in all honesty is only one, the Petronus Twin Towers, the tallest buildings in the world. The observation deck had just recently reopened after having been shut down for obvious reasons. These structures literally make up the skyline of KL. They are visible from all points. The edifice is a mix between western highrise and eastern architecture, with a large ball on top of each building, like the end of a stocking cap. While at the observation deck I used a great line to meet a beautiful German woman. “Do you think it goes any higher?” I asked. She looked at me puzzled, “I dont think so.” We spent the remainder of the day checking out a few other interesting sights of the city, including the tallest flagpole in the world, and the train station which was built during British occupation, but looks like any mosque currently being bombarded in Afghanistan or other central Asian cities.
The next moring I awoke to CNN and the news that Bush had finally given the go ahead for retailitory attacks and got a shiver in my stomach, a mix of pride, sadness, and fear. I was due to leave the city that day for a more remote location, my own Camp David, if you will. I jumped a bus to the Cameron Highlands at 2pm and arrived after a four hour journey, half of which wound upward and deep into the Malaysian rainforest.
The Cameron Highlands are an attraction for several reasons. They are home to the largest tea plantaions in the country, as well as the only strawberry farms, and a backpacker’s haven based on cheap accomodations and jungle trails. Most of the buildings in this region were constructed by the British as retreats for military commanders, thus it is a strange sight to view Tudor style cottages and resorts set against the backdrop of the dense, hanging jungles.
My hostel was one of the better ones I’ve stayed in. It sat flush against the forest and was a beacon for mellow travellers from all points. The first night I met a British chap and we agreed to tackle one of the trails the following day. In many of the guidebooks, the Cameron Highlands are reported to have a vast array of wildlife, from gibbons to tigers, elephants and snakes. The owner of the hostel informed me that there were not many gibbons left however because the locals were eating them.
The next day was perfectly picturesque as we started up the mountain at about 10am. The elevation of the town of Tanah Rata, the central city in the Highlands, is about 4,000 feet, and the peak we set out for loomed at approximately 6,500.
It took most of the morning to complete the ascent through the thick jungle vines, and a bit longer to walk down and out because we took an alternate path that wasn’t on the map. A classic move of “lets see what’s this way” with total disregard for trails or signposts. But we returned unscathed, yet certainly weary, without having seen any wildlife besides one snake that stuck his head out and slithered backwards.
The entire trek was about ten miles, I would guess. But as the two of us sat down for Tiger beers as a reward the story of our adventure quickly became fabricated. Two English girls sat with us and by the end of our afternoon drinking session the story they heard varied greatly from reality. The trek turned into a fifty mile hike, slogging trough deep and muddy undergrowth. We had to fend off a family of tigers and we were only able to do so by appeasing them with the gibbons that we had captured as an offering. That was certainly a precarious moment, but my British friend (Jay) and I “stood shoulder to shoulder” in the face of animal terrorism. The rest of the evening was spent swapping half truths with whoever was considerate enough to listen.
Unfortunately, my Malaysian adventure took a turn for the worse from that point on. The next morning I awoke with an aching body, the chills, and a stomach that became intimately aquainted with bathrooms from one end of Tanah Rata to the opposite. This “flu” continued until my departure from Malaysia yesterday, and I’m still at a loss the explain it. It could have been triggered by the sharp sun on the hike up, the greasy (though tasty) Malay food, or the mass quantity of Tiger beer my buddy and I consumed.
I feel better today though, and currently find myself in Hong Kong after a three and half hour flight from KL. The flight was painless and actually departed five minutes ahead of schedule. Today I ate McDonald’s for the first time on my trip in hopes that it would right my ailing belly. So far, so good. Ill keep you updated. Though I have enjoyed the food at all my stops, Korea, Thailand, Malaysia, and now China, there’s something about a hamburger, french fries, and a Coca-cola that just feels right. Heres to the hope that the McDonald’s in Kabul is still standing.
I leave for mainland china on Tuesday and should be in Beijing by the end of the month.