Daydreaming

All pictures stolen from a friend

I'm sure my friends and colleagues laugh at my strange, inexplicable fondness of Mongolia.  It's good, then, that, having traveled there separately, Ethan shares the same sentiments as me.  We have a running joke about living in Ulaanbaatar for a year.  He would teach; I would research.  If we crave more, we could dip into Beijing via a 36 hour train ride, or in the opposite direction on the train, go to Olkhon Island in Russia, also the stuff of dreams.  It's unlikely for a host of reasons, but mainly because after Cambodia, I need more creature comforts--not less. 

These pictures were taken by a friend during my first few days in the country.  That place really was magic.  And years later, its expansive landscapes and misty mornings still haunt me.

Glimpses from Almaty, Kazakhstan

It turns out I could not access blogger from either Kazakhstan or China. And so I am going to have to reconstruct my trip from the bits and pieces of memory that haven't already been erased and the few pictures I was able to take.

Almaty is a pleasant city. The connotations of post-Soviet structures -- which I associate with memories of central Russia and Mongolia (and which I secretly crave), which Ethan associates with his layover in Kyiv, Ukraine -- didn't hold up. The city was quaint, with a walking boulevard and park running through it and so much green space. With the exception s of the hookers calling our hotel room, my interactions with locals were lovely, and everyone we met was helpful and warm.

I'm pretty horrible at capturing the big tourist sites (i.e., I am lazy), and I much prefer capturing daily life that strike me on my wanderings in the city. And that is what we did.

Some highlights:

1. One day, we wandered around the city and came across Panfilov Heroes Memorial Park, a memorial to World War II -- and quite the place for newlyweds to take pictures. That day, we counted at least 10 wedding entourages traipsing through the park. That day was a taste of summer, as I remember it: melting ice cream, walking in the park, flowers, trees, a bright, warm day.
2. To beat the heat that day, we stopped at a small fountain with a view of the snow-capped Almaty Mountains and dipped our feet in the cold water.
   
3. On another day, after our plan to see the theatre was curbed, we walked up to the hill, past the golden gilded mosque, to sample a view of the city and to have a picnic. Prior to the walk, we raided the local grocery store and bought beet salad (yum), a local cheese (not so yum), freshly baked, dark brown bread, cookies, and a bottle of red wine. We found a bench, had our picnic, read our books, took a nap.
4. Our hotel was what one would call "Soviet chic" - drab, chintzy, full of tschotskes and non-functioning, seemingly superfluous fixtures.
5. The local grocery store: camel milk, lots of Kazakhstan candies, dark brown bread, and being reprimanded by staff for taking pictures.
   

Culture shock, phase one.

I'm in Seoul, enjoying the free internet at the airport. It is a cold day in South Korea, so cold I could see my breath as I stepped outside, so cold that the windows on the bus glazed over with a thick fog as we traveled the hour and a half from the airport into the city center, so cold that my leggings and sandals weren't quite suitable attire. No images to share today; no fully formed thoughts either.

An extended layover provided me with an opportunity to explore the city, and I accidentally ending up in one of city's main shopping areas. Today, as I watched the life on the streets, I felt a similar sensation to that when I traveled through central Russia and finally made it to Moscow. It's how I felt wandering through the city--one stocked with high-heeled women who could (amazingly) do stilettos on ice/snow--in the grubby travel gear that sustained me through the Siberian winter: out of place and wayyyy under-dressed, an outsider.

This morning, I sat and just stared for what felt like hours. Fine, I stared in appreciation at all the great shoes and coats women wore. I noticed how well-kept they appeared. I noticed how the streets were clean, how movement was orderly. I noticed the seatbelts in the bus (wow). I noticed how much more expensive food and transport were. And it became really evident to me that I've been living in a third world country, without much of the modernity and creature comforts to which I had grown accustomed, for a good chunk of the year. And I will continue to do so next year.

I wonder how Los Angeles will feel. My plane boards in 30 minutes.

Note to Self: Packing for Siberia

Cashmere leggings and yoga pants, even when paired together, don't insulate the bitter bite of Siberian winter, its chilly embrace bleeding through every bare thread, into every pore. Ah, it was an interesting attempt.

Mongolia, your images still haunt me!

A new month

Hello, October.

On this day last year, I sat in my Portland apartment, frantically packing my bags for a last-minute trip to Beijing, scheduled to leave early the next morning. I had found very cheap airline tickets, and, needing no excuse for travel then, I was determined in Beijing to catch the Trans-Siberian Railway into Mongolia and Russia, eventually to St. Petersburg. In between jobs, I told myself I would take a few weeks tops, and then go back to my life in Portland. Quite straightforward.

But it didn't work out that way. I eventually made it to St. Petersburg and back to Portland, but not to stay and not to go back to my life there. Because on that epic train journey, many things changed. Out of that trip grew my decision to finally leave Portland (for a while). And, out of that trip grew the most peculiar decision to explore international human rights law positions abroad.

A year later, I find myself in Battambang, a sleepy town in northern Cambodia with an even sleepier river, flanked by decaying French architecture and wide palm-lined streets on which youth bike. This afternoon, I found myself wading through neon-green rice paddies, sludging through mud and trying to keep my balance, barefoot, under the weight of my bag, as I walked to the lake where, earlier this year, two children drowned while they attempted to collect clean drinking water for their evicted family (who should have been provided running water at the resettlement site!). This weekend, I will meet with families evicted, or soon to be evicted, by the Asian Development Bank-funded Railway Rehabilitation Program, a project aimed at rehabilitating Cambodia's 650+ km of derelict railways.

I've said this before, but I never saw this twist in the road. Even so, here I am.

So, what will October bring? Life these days, though stressful, seems full of so many possibilities. It is all very strange.

From Russia

via Olya Ivanova

Olya Ivanova visits small Russian towns and documents their traditions with her skilled eye. Lovely.

Lately, I have had Russia on the brain again. So much. For a while, and maybe because the Cambodia move was looming, eclipsing everything with its mix of panic and excitement, with its lead-heavy weight of hope and uncertainty, my fascination with that region of the world quieted down.

It is back. There's so much Russian-something in this city: Russian Boulevard, Russian Market, Russian restaurants. I'm still trying to get into the Russian language course taught at the Russian Embassy in Phnom Penh. Last weekend, Rachel and I tried the Russian/Uzbekistan restaurant. And Shriya, in her farewell, left me several books, including "Imperium," by Ryszard Kapuscinski. His recount of his childhood, of his travels to former USSR republics, of his journey on the Trans-Siberian Railway, its expanse and immeasurable vastness . . . it takes hold of me, draws me in, once again.

Note to Self: Bathing in Siberian Lakes

High on my short list of places to revisit is Olkhon Island, Russia. Olkhon Island sits on Lake Baikal, the deepest fresh water lake in the world and also one of the oldest--at least 25 million years old. From Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, it is over a day's journey via train and then another six hours via bus to the island. To the Buryat people and to shamans, the island is one of the most sacred places on earth, a place of pilgrimage, the source of folklore and legend. According to one legend, a dip in Lake Baikal will add 25 years to your life.

Summers on the island, I've been told, are crowded and busy. When I visited, however, it was the cusp of Siberian winter, so my memories are of a place that appeared untouched, pristine and quiet, the stillness blighted only by the shrieking wind.

We set out in the morning to explore the island by foot, agreeing to return to our guesthouse by dark. I will tell you that exploring that island made me feel like a child, gripped by simple awe, open-eyed and open-mouthed, with constant murmurs of, "Krasiva, krasiva" (beautiful, beautiful).

My two days there were not enough. And, yes, in warmer weather, I will take another dip in the lake. Someday.

Starry-Eyed

In a few hours, it will be April, 2010. APRIL! How is this possible?

Tomorrow heralds the homestretch. Over a month ago, I sat at a cafe in Portland and contemplated my move, my move from Portland to Los Angeles, and my move out of Los Angeles to Phnom Penh. I hugged friends goodbye, cried a little, and moved.

Since then, the peaceful lull has lured me in, made me lazy. While I've set many things in motion this month, there is still much to do in the final weeks. I'm not a long-term planner by nature; I work best under imminent deadlines that require hurried bouts of intense focus. That said, this has been an interesting experience.

I remain optimistic.

Russian Wedding Cake

via WreckedDeco

The joke among travellers is that the Moscow Metro (or, Московский метрополитен) is a worthy sight on its own--that is, if you did nothing else in Moscow but ride through the metro's expansive grid, you'd still manage to see one of the country's finest architectural wonders. Someone also told me that the system was the busiest in the world, that it carried the total of London's AND New York City's systems put together. I don't know if that's true. It may be.

What I do know, with absolute certainty, is that the Moscow Metro is huge, magnificent, and stunning in its heavy-handed use of marble, mosaic, stained glass, and other Russian "wedding cake" architecture. I spent an inordinate time there, bewildered by the magnitude, (unsuccessfully) deciphering Cyrillic, and relishing the succession of sights with each passing station. Oh my.

On this morning, the news of the metro bombings saddens me; it makes my heart go out to friends in Russia and to those friends with loves there.

Heartfelt

via The Sartorialist

Blogging (reading and writing) is one simple pleasure of mine. I savor the inspiration I get from viewing other blogs, the piecemeal glimpses it affords into people's lives. Surprisingly, I've found that beginning my day by writing an entry, with cup of coffee in hand as morning streams through the window, is a precious salve.

Lately, I've found more delight (if more could be possible!) from The Sartorialist, who has posted a contest involving vintage photographs. I forget what the prize is, but the crux of this competition is what I enjoy most about blogging, fashion, and fashion blogging: stories of faraway times and places captured in sepia-toned images, dress steeped in memories, and cultural studies filtered through the lens of dress.

The photographs and accompanying stories are heartfelt and inspiring! Take, for example, this picture of a reader's father who lived in St. Petersburg, Russia at a time when jeans, among many other things, were banned and only procured through illegal means (hello, black market). To acquire such a treasure, as the father did, was an act of rebellion, an act of love. You can read the full narrative here.

Also, doesn't the melancholic tint of this picture just capture the spirit of St. Petersburg? Beautiful and tragic, really, in light of the recent bombings in Moscow.

Shadows. Silhouettes.

(In order: Luang Prabang, Laos; Kyoto, Japan; Gobi Desert, Mongolia; Olkhon Island, Russia; Gobi Desert (again), Mongolia.)

A Study in Spaces

When I embarked on the Trans-Siberian Railway last fall, I never imagined that I'd decide, on that journey among, and perhaps as a result of interactions with, like-minded travellers to move to Cambodia to work. It wasn't even a seedling of a thought. Now, I see that once that idea took shape, formed roots, it grew at a breakneck speed.

There is something to be said about the distances traversed on that trip, both the external and the internal, distances beyond the measure of railroad tracks transporting me from Beijing to St. Petersburg, distances set against a backdrop of tremendous vastness, empirically measurable --an expanse of 9,000+ km, eight time zones, two continents -- yet incomprehensible to the human mind.

And, the people. In my train compartment, self-imposed platskartny, there were no walls of solitude behind which to hide from the piercing eyes directed at the foreign woman travelling alone. Questions were presented--the same ones, usually: Where are you from? Why are you here? Are you married? Are you scared? Are you religious? (Once: Has someone hurt you yet?)

Our butchered translations danced, a jovial jig. Eventually, the initial awkwardness, the strangeness melted. Or, maybe it was the realization, quickly ascending, that we would sit like this, face-to-face with gazes held, for two, almost three, days. Then, warmth: profuse offerings of vodka, sausage, bread, tea; gift-giving, trinkets, pine cones; small acts of human kindness; laughter.

All the while, outside, the landscape unfolded in a blanket of sand, snow and ice.