Anticipating the Light at the End of the Runway

I just finished eating a Korean breakfast, which is a surprise to my stomach that does not like much for breakfast other than a cup of strongly brewed English breakfast tea with lots of milk in it and maybe a banana. I can handle kim chee at night but not first thing on an empty American tummy.

I awoke this morning thinking "I'm going HOME tomorrow!" Earlier this week, I despaired so much at being here that I thought about moving up my flight. Then I knew I was irrational because it'd mess up my Rotarian hosts' whole schedule that they have gone to great trouble and no minor expense to please me. I am not in control of my own schedule, and that is what is making me feel claustrophobic.

Really, though, I am happy to experience Korea up close through living with the Kang family; they have been MOST kind ... and fun. (Wait until I upload some photos: Mrs. Kang has a designer fridge with Swarovski crystals in the handles and doors and an LCD display of alternating photos above the water dispenser.)

I forgot to say I am living in a kindergarten! My Rotarian host is its owner/principal, and the home is the fourth floor of a large building. When I toured the school, I loved seeing the little ones in their uniforms of white shirts and dark pants or pleated skirts with a matching crested blazer, especially a five-year-old girl with carefully French-braided dark hair. I wanted to hug every one of these tiny children, picking them up, kissing them on the soft back of the neck that I call "the kissy spot" and tickling their tummies with blowing air to make noise. Some of the cutest babies in the world are Asian children.

But I want to get home to my own cute baby, our new granddaughter who is now two weeks old. One of our friends wrote that she may later ask me, "Nana, were you there when I was born?" (since Clint and I were there when Trevor was born). I'll have to truthfully reply "No, honey, I was in Bhutan."

I have found some unexpected cultural differences between men and women: even though I am the honored guest, the men took off walking by themselves the first night I arrived, leaving me to trail behind with the two young females. One man, however, has been paying particular attention and gave me a hug goodbye last night: I suspect he wanted to see what hugging American women with breasts feels like. I have decided from observation that if you ever see an Asian woman with breasts, they surely must be purchased rather than endowed; even Wonder Bread can't be that powerful to build strong bodies AND breasts.

Nearly all the people here are very slender, and all the women's dress sizes must begin with a negative sign. I have seen only two young Korean girls who are "big" here but would look entirely normal by American standards; there are more large young men. I don't understand because my other observation of Koreans is that they eat all the time and in very large portions: before I went to bed last nigh tat 11:30, the whole family was eating garlicky ramen noodles. Either the population is on Pepcid or GERD does not exist here.

I will so SO HAPPY to return to cool weather! The temps are chilly here at night in the 60s, but the house is heated through the floor, and I dislike walking on a hot floor. I have a tiny REI thermometer (with compass) attached to my purse, and the air temp at floor level is 85 degrees. I leave the window open, but it does not compensate.

By the way, the pitfall of sleeping with an open window at a kindergarten is that I awake to some song that sounds like a combination of a Korean "It's a Small World" and Barney's "I Love You, You Love Me." I haven't started screaming yet, but now I envision how General Noriega felt when the CIA incessantly blasted his compound with Aerosmith or whatever was chosen to drive him crazy.

I will continue my blog with experiences I didn't have time to transmit while in Tibet, Kathmandu or Bangkok. I need to share the stories of the people, times and places that now have become part of my memories of the world. I have to tell you about what the light looks like glinting of the top of Everest or the genuine kindness of my Bhutanese driver who always wanted me to be comfortable.

See you soon ...

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Pepcid is © Johnson & Johnson • Merck Consumer Pharmaceuticals Co. 1998-2007. All rights reserved.

The image of kim chee was originally posted to Flickr by Nagyman at http://www.flickr.com/photos/nagy/23219340/.

Thing are Looking Up!

It is 1:30 a.m. and I am home from a very long day with my hosts' daughter, "Judy." She drove me to Seoul --- about 90 minutes away --- with another house guest, the Korean 23-year-old family friend who is now a Canadian resident and will be going to school in "Flor-EE-dah," as he says. The young people were good company.

We went to the marvelous national museum for history, art and archaeology, a tourist shopping street with tschotckes (and the first white people I've seen since stepping off the plane three days ago), a traditional area of shopping, a department store for shopping --- some of you know that shopping is not my favorite sport --- and a night market where we bought food in a typical Korean street vendor "cafe."

Our dining area was more like the sidewalk stalls at Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco, but this is Korea and I asked if the food was safe. At least it wasn't "dogh" of last night's dinner fame, and I decided the cultural experience was worth potential digestive upset. The stalls are like a Korean workingman's fast-food delivery by competent ladies who ladle up soups, deep-fried veggie platters and highly spiced and savory meats. The marginally sheltered three or four tables with each stall are set off from the traffic by a metal railing. Our entrepreneurial ladies erected a set of wooden block stairs on each side of the fence so diners could climb to their stall in the middle, rather than walking around and perhaps getting strong-armed to stop at the first stall. It worked.

I, with my full tummy, was ready to slump down in the back seat of the minivan and sleep my way home from Seoul, but bright-eyed, thin and energetic guide and youngster Judy announced she had one more surprise for my day. And a surprise it was; no slumping for me! Instead of heading homeward, she drove to the nearby Seoul Namsan Tower, a 777-foot-high communications tower with observation deck, the third-highest in the world.

"Only one kilometer!," she chirped at 9:15 at night. Yeah, only one K in distance, I thought, but those are stairs and I'm tired. I remembered another lesson of last year's travel: "Whatever is suggested, do." My Rotarian hosts had gone to a lot of planning a memorable time for me and I ought not be grumpy.

One K later (and after Judy and I saw that a cable car ran up the other side!), we were very pleased with our efforts and rewarded with a marvelously breathtaking nighttime view. Judy lamented only that we saw mostly couples walking up the hill, and her young heart yearned for some fellow of her own. The mom in me soothed "All in good time."

So good times is the theme of tonight's thought: Good times are where we make them, in spite of ---- or embracing --- physical effort (walking up steep hills) or mental challenges (overcoming personal cultural bias). My wise friend Larry Berenato once said "Gratitude is an attitude," so again I am very grateful to be welcomed by new friends through Rotary and simply to be alive and seeing all of these unknown things with my own eyes.

I Should Have Been a Vegetarian

Remember what I just said about tempting the Fates with "How bad could it be?"

I found out tonight --- and it was really bad --- when my hostess pointed to the cooking meat and said "dog."

OH MY GOSH, that's right, how could I forget? They EAT DOGS in Korea! I saw two cats yesterday and mentally noted there were no dogs, whereas Carole and I saw dogs by the dozens in Bhutan. When I told my host mother that I did not want to eat dog and noted dismay on her face, I thought perhaps this was a cultural confrontation when I should "Buck up, little camper" and do my best not to barf.

Korean restaurants serve so many dishes --- there were 30 at merely lunch today --- that I looked around for something to eat at the same time and disguise whatever is the taste of dog. My host mother had already served me some meat --- "Filet of Fluffy" was the tragedy I imagined --- so I grabbed a slice of pickled vegetable to wrap around the tiniest piece of meat. Fortunately, all I tasted was veggie.

How could these otherwise very nice people so causually chew and swallow Man's Best Friend? Was I eating beagle, mutt or Akita? Barbarians. But had living through invasion by the Japanese, World War II and the Korean War brought such starvation on the country that they learned to eat protein wherever they found it?

We sat on the heated floor at low tables with recessed grills in the tops. It was bad luck or being the guest of honor that positioned me front and center for roasting Rottweiler. The Koreans casually poked at the meat, turning it over and over, and then I saw more raw meat arrive. One woman offered mustard sauce, pointed to the thinly sliced meat of an odd color and said "Delicious." Not on your life. I pictured Mindy, our Australian Shepherd, and declined.

Other women were piling the bones on their plates and pulling off meat with chopsticks or sucking it from the joints. Simply barbarians, I thought as I hoped I wouldn't be ill. I had eaten enough to show I was not rejecting their culture and then concentrated on veggies and soup.

I wondered about people who could eat a puppy that surely had looked with trusting brown eyes at its cook. I rationalized that I had eaten zebra when I was in college in Kenya, but at least zebras are wild and usually killed by lions or crocodiles rather than tiny grandmothers with butcher knives.

Fast forward to after-dinner grocery shopping with my host mother who wanted to know what I'd like to have for breakfast. ("Not poodle," I bitterly thought about saying.) As we walked past the meat department, I asked my host's 21-year-old daughter to point out sliced dog in the deli case so I could recognize it the next time it was served for dinner. Her eyes widened in utter horror.

"Not dohg!" She almost wailed. "Dohck! DOHCK!" The way I had heard duck pronounced with a Korean accent had made me think she was saying dog, and I had jumped to conclusions based on cultural stereotype.

I had just had a lesson about reserving judgment of a new situation before I condemned it. I had, however, remembered another lesson when traveling last year: Whatever is offered, accept. I had accepted trying something new, contrary to how awful I thought it was for an American to eat dog, and my fears proved unfounded. (Thank goodness we had gone shopping or I'd still be thinking they were barbarians!)

I wonder what cultural confusion I will encounter tomorrow? At least I know that my Korean hosts don't eat puppies any more.

Am I Really 'Sposed to Eat What's Squirming on My Plate?

When the octopus tentacle got traction on my tongue, I probably should have been more concerned. When the next sucker stuck to a tooth, though, I knew I better do something fast: I counterattacked by biting it, chewing it around and popping some very spicy kim chee in my mouth to stun it into submission as I swallowed it.

I had just landed in Seoul and naturally was trying to show I was unfazed at eating dinner that was still alive and trying to escape from me. (I decided it's not "food" until it at least stays where it is.) After all, I have eaten so much weird stuff in Japan, and I can be brave: I've given birth twice without anesthesia and compared to that, how bad could it be? (Note: People who rationalize "How bad could it be?" are generally tempting the Fates to show them how bad it can be ...)

But back to the inchworm behavior on my plate: Obviously I won that round. I'm writing 24 hours later and have not had scary things erupt from my stomach (as in the horrible scene from Aliens), so there's another reason to be grateful for digestive juices.

I am, however, exhausted with a capital X. The accumulation of four and a half weeks of travel and rolling through five countries in the last four days --- I forgot to say we also were in Bangladesh, but that is another story --- has gotten to me.

In Hong Kong, I was terribly tired of Chinese people bumping me, shoving past me, getting in my space or trying to hustle us. Carole and I were targets walking down the sidewalk for "Madam! Rolex copy?" or "Madam! Prada purse?" I actually put my hand up to a guy's face to keep him away from me. I thought about decking another man who said "Madam! Tailor-made suit? Make you beautiful!," but I just kept walking. I wonder if Chinese people don't consider bumping as rude because they live in a crowded country, but I hate to be touched by strangers. A girl on the plane actually held my elbow to pull me aside so her mother could pass.

I am in Seoul now and ready for home and my husband taking care of me after five weeks of travel. I feel like I can't even remember being home.

This is the first time I have been able to get to an Internet. I am at the Grand Hotel (which ain't bad) in Onyang (I think), Korea. The Rotarians booked it for me, and tomorrow I am going to the home of a past district governor whose daughter served as my interpreter at the airport last night. It is closing time for the Internet, so for now, Th-th-th-that's all, folks!

Transition Time in Asia

I pride myself on traveling fast and light, but my suitcase definitely has gotten heavier. I've tried to blame it on being at sea level with increased humidity and my clothes absorbing water, but it's really the presents I've bought for my family. I have unrolled the small duffel bag to solve my problem.


Carole and I are winding down here in Hong Kong. It is defintely a big city and big cities do not appeal to me (except for Sydney, which I LOVED --- that was four years ago with our yongest son, Owen, when he was 22). Carole will leave tomorrow for home in Pennsylvania, and my flight to Seoul takes off about an hour after her departure. After a month of traveling together, we suddenly feel that time has run short and let's hurry up and be sure to do everything we meant to do. We can hardly remember being in Beijing.


By the way, who has received post cards so far? Clint and the boys say they haven't received a thing, although I started mailing postcards four weeks ago! Oh well, please don't take it personally if you think I have not communicated.

Hong Kong is very, very noisy and so is this Internet cafe that apparently derives its main income from adolescent boys whose parents don't mind (or don't know) that they spend their afternoons on Internet games and being a nuisance to serious adults who want to type in peace. Guess it's been too long since Travis and Owen were that age because I would have beaten them for being so obnoxious. Some other patrons were also turning around to look at the kids, so I asked the fellow running the place to ask the kids to tone down. He said no.

We are having dinner tonight with Clint's niece who happens to be working in Hong Kong, so I will convey kisses from her mom in Northern California and be able to truthfully report that Jean is indeed well and happy. You know how we parents like visual verification when it comes to our children.

Although I wrote six months ago about visiting the Rotary district in South Korea that is our exchange partner for this year, I am down to my arrival there in less than 24 hours without many details of whom I will be able to meet. Since I am arranging the sending of our team there and reception of their team in our district next, it is in the best interests of both of our districts that we do this. This is an example of "living with ambiguity" and trusting that someone indeed will pick me up at the airport.

Stay tuned for news from SEOUL! (Anyone remember the TV music program "Soul Train"? I love the way the announcer said "SOUUUUUUUL!" Don't think any Koreans will recognize my reference, though ...)

Talk to you when I am in a different time zone.

Karen Goes Underground

I am so proud of myself as a Southern Californian: Today I learned to successfully negotiate the subway system and also take the funicular (tram) up the mountain to Victoria Peak. Talk about the sublime to the ridiculous: After a spectacular ride up, up, up the mountain, we ate at the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company - Hong Kong! It has about the best view of anyplace that doesn't cost a ton o' money to sit for hours and watch the sun fade from the sky. We have had rainy weather for two days, so the misty clouds over the Hong Kong Harbour gave a magic that clear skies are powerless to bestow. Again, Carole and I consider ourselves lucky, lucky, lucky.

"But Karen," you ask, "how are you managing to update your blog every day when the freakin' Internet time is so costly?" (Remember, it's very expensive real estate here and they have to recoup the rent somehow). It's the local version of Starbucks and as long as I buy something and type for 15 minutes or less, Internet is free. The drawback is that I have a timer reminding me to type my little heart out and someone watching for the time to be up; it's like elementary school and little girls counting time on the swings when we ought to share and play nicely.

OK, I'm going to stop and go find some more to do tonight in Hong Kong.

Sticker Shock in Hong Kong

Guess I should have written more blog entries when I was in Bhutan and charged only $1.50 an hour to use the Internet: The rate here at my hotel in Kowloon is $28 an hour! Sorry, you are not going to get more details about Bhutan until I find less tony digs for my Internet needs.

To make a long story short --- and affordable --- I am still very healthy and happy in Asia. It has been almost four weeks since I left home, however, and I do miss my husband, my family and my friends, not the least of which is meeting our new granddaughter.

On Saturday, I will be onward to South Korea to visit our Rotary district exchange partner for this year. Thanks for all the prayers and good wishes you continue to send.

A real E-ticket ride in Bhutan airspace

I closed my eyes for a moment and swore I heard the plane's wing tips brushing the pine trees. (If you're an "Airplane!" fan, you'd say "Well, I guess I picked the wrong week to give up aisle seats!")

When the plane is a commercial Airbus, that's not much room for error, but the Druk Air Royal Bhutan Airline pilots must pretend they're Star Wars Jedi knights by the way they wig-wagged the plane's wings to fit through the narrow and twisting canyon that was our flight path. It worked, but we didn't have much room left at the end of the runway. As pilots always say, however, any landing you walk away from is a good landing.

I haven't had time to tell you much about Bhutan, so let me backtrack a little ... and that really WAS an impressive way to enter the country.

The roads are nearly as harrowing as our flight in, and I know people who'd have been screaming the whole way. Remember, I am in the Himalayas, and they ain't short hills: They are towering mountains now sharply cut in a V by swift rivers, and that means steep drop-offs, the kind where you occasionally read about a bus plunging off the side with 50 locals inside, 30 locals clinging onto the top and two Americans. (Carole and I are traveling as a group of two with a guide and the driver, so at least I have some control because these guys want us alive for their tips at the end of our tour.)

Our guide is a 21-year-old Bhutanese who is like a mother hen. He insisted that warm-blooded Carole (from Pennsylvania) wear a jacket to go to the Internet place just now, and he hovers over us. I know he is trying to be responsible, and he likes being responsible, but we want to cuff his ear and inform him that we each have traveled the world several times over --- and alone --- without his kindly supervision.

By the way, here are some travel axioms I've lived:

* You know you've been gone a long time when the local language sounds familiar. During my last taxi ride in Nepal, I thought the radio announcer was speaking in Spanish and that I understood it.

*You know you're in a developing nation when diarrhea control is an acceptable --- and eagerly discussed --- dinner topic.

*You know you're in a developing nation when your air traffic control tower is a hut on stilts. (It was made of pine here in Bhutan; bamboo in Peru.)

*You know you're in a developing nation when your airport's name is spray-painted on the side of the ticket sales booth.

More later; my Internet time is over and our flock is going to be rounded up to return to the roost!

P.S. Tomorrow we are going to "The Tiger's Nest," the misty photo of an earlier entry.

LIVE ... from Thimpu ... it's Saturday Night!

For the geographically challenged, I'm in the capitol city of the Kingdom of Bhutan, which is the world's only capitol without a traffic signal. "The dancing policeman" directs traffic from his tiny bandbox in the intersection, but not after 5 p.m. in winter for fear of him getting too cold. (I am in the eastern Himalayas, sandwiched between China to the north and India on three sides.)

This is a compassionate country whose king prizes gross national happiness over gross national profit. I have found everything here to be to my liking (well, except the lack of an Internet cafe within my hotel or walking distance; in that respect, Kathmandu and Lhasa really have this place beat).

It has been a very long day that included our car's warning light going on because it was running entirely out of oil. I'll bet the oil pan was a casualty of having to drive through some severe road construction yesterday. Our guide flagged down a passing tour bus of kind Swiss people who offered two empty seats to Carole and me while our driver stayed with the car for help. We were ferried to a chilly little restaurant atop a pass until another tour company car arrived to help us.

By the way, the Indian government provides road construction and maintenance to Bhutan as a form of aid. I have seen WOMEN and men slinging sledge hammers to break granite boulders into smaller rocks, then other people pounding those with smaller hammers to form the roadway base. No eye protection, by the way. Think about this the next time you want to say you don't like your job.

The road workers are all Indian nationals, and I have seen women nursing their babies next to a cement mixer or small children sitting by their parents as they work. I cannot imagine how destitute these families must be that they leave their homes to do hard physical labor in a foreign and cold place for what cannot be much pay. This also is how child labor starts: when the toddler can fetch a hammer or carry a pail ... it is a cycle of poverty through a lack of education to do something better.

The Kingdom of Bhutan is a very different place, in addition to the Gross National Happiness factor. Tobacco sales and smoking are outlawed (although I have seen tour guides surreptiously sucking down their cigarettes), and so are my white sneakers and jeans in temples and other important buildings. "Appropriate dress" can be rented from one's hotel, but fortunately I packed a long black skirt and some black shoes (the ones that DIDN'T get stolen from my suitcase violation when arriving at Kathmandu).

Tour guides must be in their national dress, called a go for men, which looks like a tailored bathrobe that ends at the knees, with black or coordinated knee socks and black shoes; the robe's long white cuffs must be showing, as well as a white collar that indicates the wearer is subservient to the king. When entering a temple, guides must wear an additional sash that is tied just so around the body and shoulders.

Well hey, that might be enough of a lesson on Bhutan, probably quadrupling the amount of Bhutan facts you previously knew. If you know any more, please enter them in the comments!

By the way, I met a 98-year-old man today who wanted to tell Carole and me the story of the temple we were visiting and his memories of the place. He sang a blessing to us for our safe return home. I have a wonderful photo of him that I'll post when I get home.

Stay tuned, as next time I will tell you about the many countryside homes I saw today with the most colorful murals on their walls: huge male genitals, complete with very hairy testicles and equally huge sperm happily spurting out the tip: a legacy of the Divine Madman monk whose famous member was supposedly as long as he was tall.

No wonder this a happy country. (The previous king also had four wives, all sisters.) But I digress ...

Karen's a Grandmother!

After stumping her attending physicians for 23.5 hours yesterday, Hailey Lynn Cascarelli was born this morning at 6:10 PDT to Karen's son, Travis and our dear daughter-in-law, Traci. All are doing fine. Karen's been notified.

Personally, I thought Hailey was delaying her entrance to the world until the air quality of the wildfire-ravaged region cleared up a bit...

Ahhh...I can hear you all now saying to yourselves, "But Karen, you're too young to be a grandmother..."

Photos at...

http://web.mac.com/clintbradford/Site/Hailey.html

Clint Bradford

Greetings from the Kingdom of Bhutan!

Greetings from the Kingdom of Bhutan! Bhutan looks like Switzerland with Tibetan-style buildings, if you can imagine that. Seriously. There are pretty, clean cows grazing, horses in the fields and a quiet, clean environment. After the noise, traffic and let's-extort-the-foreigners environment of Kathmandu, Bhutan is quite a pleasant and quiet retreat. Shocking, really, in comparison.

I don't have much time to write my thoughts as our guide is standing behind me and the driver is waiting, so I will just give two more comments on Nepal:

1). For the last week, I have often gotten into taxis driven by young men I would not have trusted to carry my groceries to the car;

2). Last night the was the first time I thought I'd suffer internal injuries from merely riding in a car. Being a passenger in a car in Kathmandu is like being launched inside a pinball machine, only the paddles and flappers include the possibility to ricochet off of cows, pedi-cabs, trucks, motorcylces with whole families on them and even an elephant that I saw walking down Kantipathi Street yesterday. (He was outfitted in red, ridden by two men. I wasn't drinking.)

That's PROFESSOR Lama...

ATLANTA - The Dalai Lama was formally installed as a professor at Emory University on Monday as Tibetan monks wearing large moon-shaped, yellow hats chanted and played cymbals, gongs and horns.

"I suspect you will not need to carry this with you for identification, but in any case, we wanted you to know you are welcome," student Emily Allen said as she handed him the card, a present from the students.

In his first speech as a faculty member, the Dalai Lama encouraged his audience of thousands of people to look beyond money and fame for happiness. Education paired with destructive behavior is wasted, but knowledge used for good is a powerful instrument, he said.

"As a professor of this university, I think you should listen to me," the 72-year-old monk and Nobel Peace Prize laureate said with a laugh.

As Presidential Distinguished Professor, the Dalai Lama will provide private teaching sessions with students and faculty during Emory's study-abroad program in Dharamsala, India, and periodiically visit Emory in Atlanta.
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On the Internet...

Emory-Tibet Partnership: http://tibet.emory.edu/

Dalai Lama's visit: http://dalailama.emory.edu/

The "Pointy End of the Spear" - where theory intersects life

I met a polio crawler yesterday.

It is October 21, and I am in Kathmandu, Nepal: not exactly a vacation --- my travel is too rough and basic to be called a vacation --- so perhaps you could call it business since I am a writer and this is a great place to observe life. It certainly *is* what Clint calls "enrichment," because yesterday I met a crawler.

Carole, my traveling companion, and I sat on the balcony of a second-floor restaurant, watching street life from our "observatory" as we ate, entertaining each other with a running commentary on the interaction between people: tourists, beggars, fruit vendors, street hustlers, sari-clad ladies carrying a child and tapping passersby on the arm with an empty baby's milk bottle.

Of course, we could not ignore this man, the crawler, as he appealed to various people. Carole and I had made a pact that we wouldn't give to most beggars, especially after watching a boy instruct younger boys in the art of efficient begging. We couldn't hear him, but we certainly understood his gestures: how to run up to adults, how to prayerfully fold the hands in the "namaste" greeting, how to look appealing. (We then saw them inhale from paper bags, recognizing the habit of children who sniff glue to get high.)

As we would have to walk past him, I asked Carole: "What about this guy?" He was different. Carole is an RN, and we had decided this was not an act: his withered and contracted legs were surely the result of polio, folded in front of him the way a butterfly would retract its wings to rest for a moment. He used his hands for support and advanced himself by pushing forward an incredibly calloused foot. His richly browned face was at the knee level of everyone else.

Carole and I talked about a world that stops caring when there are too many people in it. People become commodities to advance their governments, and instead this man was a burden.

I wondered how the man could use a toilet, thinking of the "eastern style" squat toilets where I carefully rolled up the cuffs of my jeans so they wouldn't touch the smelly, slippery floor. Could this man unfold his legs or manuver his body to decently relieve himself?

When Carole and I finally went into the street, he saw us and beckoned. He was younger than I thought and frightfully dusty from living at dirt and pavement level, as Kathmandu is certainly not a tidy city. His clothes seems to be more of rags wrapped around his nut-brown body, but his eyes were a startling contrast: large whites in contrast to nearly black irises. I could not help thinking that he looked up at me like the fearful and tentative eyes of a guilty dog waiting for punishment.

I feel very strongly about our Rotary projects to relieve suffering in the world, like this. When the unfair and unequal distribution of wealth and services continue cycles of poverty, we must share our blesings that we are finacially able to give, multiplying our individual donations into a mightier effect.

Police Clash with Monks

BEIJING - Police in the capital of Tibet clashed for four days with Buddhist monks trying to celebrate the awarding of a congressional honor for the Dalai Lama, a Hong Kong newspaper reported Sunday.

The Ming Pao newspaper said hundreds of monks at the Zhaibung monastery in Lhasa had clashed with police.

It said that after the clash, the monastery was surrounded by 3,000 armed police who refused to allow more than 1,000 monks leave. It gave no other details and did not say if there were any injuries.

A call to the monastery was not answered Sunday.

Kathmandu

I am safely at my next stop --- Kathmandu, Nepal --- and the challenges of a third-worldcountry are evident: Somone cut the zip-tie on the outside pocket of my suitcase(a someone who did not want ladies black shoes). Nepal is a case of remaining vigilant.I have a TSA lock on the main compartment, so the rest of my things were untouched.

I was the first person of our now-small group out of immigration and went outsidethe airport, looking to meet our transfer who never showed. The taxi touts circlingme like sharks: "Madam! Taxi? Where are you going?"

When Carole and Joann caught up to me, we decided we had better take a cab, and then I had a whole circle of drivers offering to take us. I negotiated in front of them, then asked to see the vehicles they were driving. One fellow assured mehe could fit three American ladies and five suitcases in something the size of aGeo Metro. I went for the mini van, then saw five men rush to help us, then askingfor "small gifts" for the favor. You know what that means: tips to anyonewho even looked at my belongings, preferably in American dollars.

When we pulled out of the parking lot, the next stop was a supposed "attendant"at whom the driver stopped and asked for 20 rupees fee: 10 cents equivalent. I wassitting next to the driver and just stared at him until he drove on. Can you imaginetrying to extort someone for 10 cents? It reminded me of getting shaken down in India when I went horseback riding, my guide telling me get off at a place shortof the stable and then saying I hadn't paid for his services. (I had not yetlearned to be suspicious and should have demanded that we ride back to the placewe started, but it was a steep hill with cobblestones and I was just as happy toget off with my legs intact.)

It is festival time here in Nepal, so many of the shops are closed, but I intendto go to a meeting of the "Rotary Club of Himalaya Gurkhas" on Monday night! (Isn't that a great name? I have visions of "You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!") Stay tuned, and thanks for reading my blog.

The Disco Lounge Bathroom

What more could Heaven offer me? In Shigatse, I finally had plenty of hot water, a shower, soap and ... red and blue blinking lights in the fluorescent fixture over the sink mirror! (It made up for my "No! No Laundry!" experience ...)

Now I know another reason that Rotary International builds clean water sources: When I tried to wash my hair the day before in Shegar, there must have been chemicals in the water that bonded molecules in some ways I've never encountered.

My hair was so filled with dust from our Mount Everest expedition that I was even going to chance washing my hair in water so cold that it made me gasp in shock and my hands quickly ache. I figured that if I sufficiently contorted myself into a U-shape over the tub, only the smallest amount of my scalp would have to endure the cold and I wouldn't scream very loudly.

I was pleasantly surprised when warm water began to flow, but when I looked in the tub, I saw apparently much more than Tibetan topsoil. When trying to comb my hair the next morning, I knew something was wrong, horribly wrong. Fortunately, our tour group arrived at the hotel in Shigatse before I truly had "helmet hair." I had the serendipity of thinking that even John Travolta in "Saturday Night Fever" never had a disco bathroom.

"Gulliver's Travels" a la Tibet

I thought I was going to be trussed by Tibetan schoolboys today when I took a walk instead of staying with my group to visit the Sakya Monastery.

Still at about 13,000 feet elevation, I was suddenly overwhelmed by sleepiness and took a nap instead of inhaling more yak butter fumes from the lamps in the monastery.

I took a walk toward sunset and sat on a rock to watch the villagers threshing their barley harvest. A steady string of children passed me by, mostly chirping "Hello! How are you!," but some asking for money with the universal outstretched hand.

Then it happened that I nearly got mugged by four eight-year-old boys, realizing their strength in numbers despite being half my height. They circled to look at me, then noticed all the cool essentials I have attached to my purse: the twist pen with KAREN printed on it; several carabiners; my water bottle; and the flat LED flashlight; my REI compass/thermometer; the tiny bottle of hand sanitizer.

One clever munchkin snatched off the hair clip I always keep on the strap but I got it back. Another had time to untwist my pen to remove the cartridge, but I managed to get it back, too. I felt this was quickly getting out of hand, like sharks smelling blood in the water, like feral dogs hunting in packs, and I was the Gulliver who was going to be overwhelmed by pint-sized people.

I sprang up to make my escape, fortunately at the same time as an Anglo guy about 6'7" was near. He turned out to be a 20-something Swiss national named Blaise who had bicycled alone from Kirghizstan on his way to Lhasa. One little guy still tried to leap up us, like an ambitious Chihuahua, but I was safe. Thank you, Blaise.

How Thoughts of 1904 Echo to Me Today

We now are in Gyantse, one of my favorite places in Tibet, and certainly more so since I started reading the history of this country. British Colonel Francis Younghusband (pictured above) was ordered to Tibet from India in 1904, tasked with securing the country as an Empire ally and trading partner to shut out Russian advances in "The Great Game" that had begun play a century before.

Younghusband reached Gyantse and asked surrender of the fort, a massive wall that sprawls across several ridges and can be seen from far away. The Tibetan general asked what would happen if he didn't surrender, to which Younghusband replied "Then we shall blow open the gates as we did (elsewhere)." Although British and Tibetan history diverge, it is said that the remaining Tibetan soldiers under siege threw themselves from the cliffs rather than be captured.

Younghusband got to Lhasa, the first known foreigner who made it past all the Tibetans who asked the uninvited foreigners to turn back. He took seven weeks to get acquainted, negotiate an agreement that cemented British trade in Tibet that shut out the Russians and rest before returning to India. The night before departure, he rode up into the hills above Lhasa for solitude. He later wrote that that hour alone "was worth the rest of (his) life."

Younghusband wrote that he found Lhasa to be dusty and dirty instead of the fabled and mystical Shangri-la. But obviously, Tibet was a very special place even one hundred years ago and continues to intrigue many of its visitors. With Carole, my traveling companion from last year's tour and this one, we continue to cry our way through various Buddhist monasteries, looking at the ancient relics and the overwhelming piety and sincere beliefs of the faithful.

When we visited the Gyantse monastery this morning with the marvelous blue-roofed Kumbun, I started to cry and told Carole I needed a hug. We continue to say how lucky, lucky, lucky we are; the spell of Tibet has not worn off.

No! No laundry!

One thing you learn about traveling in foreign countries is that you just have to go with the flow, whatever the flow is.

Case in point: In one of our hotels on the way to Mount Everest, I saw a laundry slip in the room and thought great!, I can get my dusty clothes washed! I entered "1 pair white socks" and "1 long black skirt" that I'd been wearing (a discreet and wise choice for when nature calls on the Tibetan plain where there are NO trees to hide behind).

When I placed them on the counter at the front desk, the woman looked at me like I was offending her. "No!" she shouted with disgust, waving me off with her hand. "No laundry!"

"But there was a laundry slip in my room," I explained, trying to justify my behavior.

She just look at me again, perhaps thinking I was deaf as well as stupid: "No laundry!"

I slunk away, rolling my black skirt around my sockies so no one else would notice my grievous error.

I Have Been to the Mountain

There are days when I say "Thank you God, for getting me this far and letting me see this." October 15 was one of those days, standing --- again! --- in front of the world's tallest mountain. How lucky, lucky, lucky I am. (I think I've said this before, but oh well, the lack of oxygen does have effects!)

I remember last year, staring up at the perfect and majestic rock and snow-clad glory of Mount Everest. The elevation there at base camp is 17,200 feet, and as I looked at it, I thought if we could add the full height of Mount Whitney (which I've climbed) at 14,495 feet, it STILL would not equal the height I was looking at: 29,035 feet.

So there I was again and grateful I had been there before because the mountain was nearly completed occluded by clouds, only intermittenly revealing the summit for those who knew where to look. I felt sorry for the rest of the group who would not be able to see it as I had, a brilliantly blue sky behind it with snow blowing off the top as the peak interrupts the jet stream.

Some of our group did stay the night at the marginal Everest Hotel, but that spot is not a pleasant place for humans, and I chose to return the few miles to our hotel in Shegar. Even then, the temperature in the morning was 20 degrees Fahrenheit. My REI clip-on thermometer indicated 45 degrees at Everest, but mere temperature is not the issue there: it's the blasting wind that is! The farmer in our tour group figured a 40 MPH wind at Everest, so my windchill conversion chart brings the temperature to something like 25 degrees to exposed skin. (Yeah, it certainly felt like it. I had on my lined leather pants, silk long-johns top and bottom, plus layers of more wool, cashmere and silk. I cranked down the hood retainer on my North Face jacket (standing in front of the original North Face!) just to keep my head scarf and hair from blowing around!

But temperature really didn't matter to me, except that my smile might be frozen on my face. The intense cold merely inspired me to quickly tie my string of prayer flags to the ones that had been placed before me and unravel the ones I meant to take home with the memory that I had flown them at Everest.

P.S For you Google Earth fans, here are the coordinates of where I was:

N 28 degrees 8' 478"

E 86 degrees 51' 054"

Dalai Lama Visit to U.S.

Karen's away from Internet access for the past three days...Meanwhile, the Dalai Lama's visit to the U.S. - and China's threat to the U.S. for honoring him - dominated this afternoon's White House press briefing...

http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2007/10/20071016-5.html#

Moving closer to the roof of the world

I am in Shigatse now. The police regulate how much time can elapse between five check points on the road from Lhasa after a Chinese tour bus overturned and killed 16. So, our drivers know how much time there can be, so we pull over and wait so that we can arrive at the proper times and not get fined. The drive so slowly any way!! Perhaps it is a blessing in disguise as the view at the side of the road is much preferable to being in a city that is becoming more Sino-ized by the day. I can see tremendous change just in the year since I was here, and as I am a country girl at heart, I feel sad to see more ugly construction and mindless sprawl without charm.

During this morning's drive, we climbed to more than 17,000 feet to a pass that overlooks the exquisite Turquoise Lake: the clouds change the color of the water's surface as they move across the sky, causing incredible shades of blue. This is the place of my first "yak encounter" last year.

( I am not able to upload photos from the road here, so I've asked Clint to substitute some of my photos from last year. What Tibet 2007 would show as a marked difference from Tibet 2006 is the temperature: While last year there was snow at the top of the pass and I was bundled in five layers that I hardly removed for two weeks, this year's photo would show Kare in a short-sleeve silk knit top and a long skirt --- nary a glove nor insulating scarf in sight --- striking a jaunty pose that is not wind-whipped! We would call the weather Indian Summer, but who knows how that would translate into Tibetans.

I continue to be extremely healthy with no effects of acute altitude sickness, knock on wood painted with the auspicious symbols of Buddhism!

"You Chinese!"

Yesterday started as a most beautiful morning: absolutely gorgeous autumn weather with stunningly blue skies that made me incredibly happy to be alive: I was back in Tibet, and I felt welcomed. I am happy here.

Our small group of nine walked around the Jokhang in the heart of Lhasa; it is the most sacred of Tibetan Buddhist temples. From the roof, we could see the Potala Palace some miles away, bathed in a shaft of light through the puffs of clouds as though to direct our attention there.

I wanted to find the wonderful jewelry shop where I bought a number of things last year. Carole from Pennsylvania (my traveling companion from last year's tour), Joann and I finally found it and spent a fair amount of money there, but as we stepped out the door, a Tibetan woman street vendor tried to sell us cheap necklaces.

Joann made the mistake of asking how much, just for inquiry, which the woman took as an interest to buy: "150 yuan!" Joann kept walking after me, and I heard the woman calling out progressively lower prices with an equally rising voice. Joann kept saying no, even at 40 yuan. I had crossed the street by this time time, but heard the woman following us and finally yelling with complete contempt: "Fuckkkkk you! You bitch! You whore! " There was a gap in the epithets, and then she launched the most damning insult: "You Chinese!"

I could walk away from all the rest, but I could not let this comment be my lasting memory of Lhasa. Although I had had nothing to do with the incident, I walked back to the woman, put 20 yuan, about $3, in her hand, said "We are not Chinese" and went back in my original direction. She caught up to me and held out an imitation turquoise and coral bracelet. "Gift" she said, "gift from me. I'm sorry."

I have been thinking about this woman: It was about 6:20 in the evening when the incident happened. I'm sure she was tired from standing all day and trying to hustle tourists with cheap jewelry amongst the competition. We obviously were the last straw and she lost it: "You Chinese!"

I realize that I will be able to go home to my nice life, but she will continue to be a second-class citizen in her own country.

Middle of the Night Musings: A Lesson on the First Amendment or Merely Technical Difficulties?

I can't access my blog while in Beijing. Not now, not for three days.

What you are reading is what I forwarded to Clint's email address to post for me. Why can I access Hotmail, MSN.com, PE.com and others, but not my blog? What is the difference? Unless it truly *is* technical difficulties, the difference is that I am in China and trying to post my personal opinion.

We voice our opinion so freely in the US! (While I'd rather go through life without "The O'Reilly Factor," the First Amendment is what gives both of us that freedom.) So what I am talking about is freedom of expression ... and I am in China.

Who remembers quirks in recent history to recall one of the factors in the reunification of Germany? The fax machine! By the use of commonly available and fairly unsupervised technology --- the phone lines --- many people could read the same message at virtually the same time and collectively organize to do something about their situations. Clint and I always say "The Internet is our friend," but obviously it is the friend only of people who are free to access it.

"But that's just my opinion, I could be wrong."

No! No laundry!

One thing you learn about traveling in foreign countries is that you just have to go with the flow, whatever the flow is.

Case in point: In one of our hotels on the way to Mount Everest, I saw a laundry slip in the room and thought great!, I can get my dusty clothes washed! I entered "1 pair white socks" and "1 long black skirt" that I'd been wearing (a discreet and wise choice for when nature calls on the Tibetan plain where there are NO trees to hide behind).

When I placed them on the counter at the front desk, the woman looked at me like I was offending her. "No!" she shouted with disgust, waving me off with her hand. "No laundry!"

"But there was a laundry slip in my room," I explained, trying to justify my behavior.

She just look at me again, perhaps thinking I was deaf as well as stupid: "No laundry!"

I slunk away, rolling my black skirt around my sockies so no one else would notice my grievous error.

Moving Day

I was reluctant to get up when the alarm went off: not because I'd only had a couple hours of sleep, but realizing that once I started moving, I'd be in motion or jostled for a very long time today ... all the way to Beijing.

"OK, let's go!"

Beginning with a single step on the journey of many thousand miles

Tomorrow morning is when I to head to Beijing. This is much of the same trip as I did last year, including going to Mount Everest (29,035 feet); my dad was a geologist, so I grew up with him explaining why the world looks the way it does. He became sick when I was 12 and died when I was 16, so I could only hope that somewhere in the ethersphere, his spirit knew how much those early lessons meant to me as I looked at the folded and crumpled landscape of the Himalayas.

When we stopped at the road side, little children often came up to our Landcruiser, looking to sell ammonites they’d found. What a amazing thought: the fossilized remains of sea life, lifted up to 17,000 feet and more, found casually on the ground 50 million years later to be offered up in tiny, dusty hands.

Want to hear a GREAT spooky story?

For those of you who live in Riverside County (or close enough), be sure to go hear a dramatization of one my stories during GHOSTWALK, a classic Riverside annual event.

Every year on the weekend before Halloween, the California Riverside Ballet hosts a very creative fundraiser: spooky stories set in Riverside and usually written by local people … like me!

This year, I wrote a funny spooky story called “How the Moro Blood Orange Came to Be ... or ... What Happened When Harvey Finally Had Enough”! Four or five stories are staged at locations very close around the Mission Inn, and people are led by a tour guide every 15 minutes to the different locations to hear the storyteller give a five-minute story, staged in an interesting location.

Clint and I started taking the boys to Ghostwalk when they were little, and they liked it so much they wanted to go again! Check it out and tell me if you liked my story. (I'll be in Hong Kong on that day.)

October 26 and 27, 5:40 - 11:00 pm
Ghostwalk
Downtown Pedestrian Mall (just west of the Mission Inn)
Contact: California Riverside Ballet
(951) 787-7850

T-minus two and counting

About three weeks before a trip, I start agonizing over “WHY am I leaving my family? WHY don’t I STAY HOME!?” I am over that now. I will cry at the airport, of course, but then like a scared kindergartener on the first day of school who suddenly sees all the wonderful things that the classroom offers --- art supplies, books and a beckoning teacher --- I feel welcomed to set off into the world to discover what new things I can see and learn.

T-minus three days and counting

I tell myself that if something goes wrong, I can always walk home --- it might take a long time --- but I can walk home.

I can’t walk home from Tibet, but I do feel at home in the world. People will help me if I need help, and there’s not really much time that I will be “alone” alone: just the first three days in China and then on my way to Korea and home. That’s really not much time, and I can’t think of any time during my travels when I’ve felt scared. I’ve felt lonesome, but that makes coming home sweeter. I remember how grateful I was last year to be home.

I am interested to see what I think and feel this trip. I was in such awe of merely being in Tibet last year that I missed details. One of my friends said I changed after that trip. I should hope so, although I am not sure what I’ve changed to.

One of our group from last year is a juvenile court judge from Des Moines; he is the fellow who said he has been fascinated with Tibet since seeing a photo of the Potala when he was a boy in a one-room schoolhouse in Nebraska. What a memory to carry for so many years! He wrote to me last night and said “Have a grand trip,” just like that, with the italics: “a grand trip.”

I am sure it will be that … and more.

OK, let's go!

In high school forensics, I heard a speech about “youth in Asia” when I competed in persuasive speaking events ... I couldn’t understand what all the impassioned fuss was about: My school had an exchange student from Finland; why wouldn’t students from Asia be equally acceptable?

I later found out it was “euthanasia.” (Ah, my mistake. Note to self: always define terms in case the audience might not know the words I am using.)

So, when thinking about what to call my blog for my upcoming trip, I thought that “Karen in Asia” would remind me not to take myself too seriously! So, please join me for October and November during my experiences in China, Tibet, Nepal, the Kingdom of Bhutan, Bangkok, Hong Kong and South Korea.

"OK, let's go!" was one of the English phrases spoken by the Tibetan driver of my last year's trip around his country. It reminds me to get in the Landcruiser and let's go have some more fun! In the last year, I have often used to to prod myself into action: OK, let's go!