Rollin' Down the Yangtze

The last few days have been uneventful in a bizarre sort of way. As the title of this post indicates, we are rollin' down the Yangtze River in China. It is the third longest river in the world and home to the highly controversial construction of the Three Gorges Dam. Jero and I are on a cruise boat full of Chinese, Japanese, and Korean tourists. We think there may be one other white person on board, but this is an unconfirmed sighting.

Given our current location (cruise boat on the river, somewhere between Yichang and Chongquin, southeast China) and the current ratio of Asians to us, there have been some communication difficulties. For instance, upon waking up this morning to absolute silence and stillness, we realized that our ship had docked and furthermore, that none of its occupants were to be found. Nary a crew member, nary a guest. Just us. This was was not a welcome surprise. What were we to do? We sat. No engines meant no power, so we sat and sweat, our confusion growing by the minute. Why would they leave us on the boat? A hot, sweltering, cruise boat in the middle of the Yangtze?!! Did I mention the boat was padlocked? My thoughts were growing increasingly dramatic and the words "floating tomb" began to take on special significance. The Yangtze River in August is not a place that you really want to spend large amounts of time on or near. It is rainy season in this part of China, and for some reason, we did not make this connection in our heads when booking the cruise. It rained this morning, the river was muddy and gross, and we were locked in the boat. To compound our misery, we were hungry and there was clearly not going to be anybody around to make and/or sell us any meals. We became quite morose. We can't even go back to sleep because our bunk room has turned into a veritable sauna. Thank goodness for Jero's iPod. No time like the present to start watching whole seasons of Lost. Everyone rejoined the boat just after lunch, and we still have no idea where everyone went or why. However, we do know that no one was concerned about the welfare of the two Americans.

Speaking of sleep, we are sharing the room with a family of three. I am not sure of their exact ethnicity, I just know that they do not understand us, and we surely do not understand them. The three of them share a set of bunk beds. The father gets his own bed, and it only takes an hour into our first slumber party together to understand why. The man snores. It is not just a soft, endearing snore though. No, somewhere there is a giant wildebeest crying out for help. As I lay awake every night after being awakened by these inconceivable sounds coming from this man's throat, I resigned myself to a sleepless night. I lay there and tried to think how I would describe his snores to someone, and I finally arrived at the conclusion that if I knew what a wildebeest giving birth sounded like, then that would be it.

On a happier, less cranky and sleep-deprived note, the scenery surrounding this mighty river is amazing. The towering cliffs, the terraced hillsides, and the velvety mist floating in between, more than make up for any of our current inconveniences. So what, we didn't get the party cruise boat we thought we were. Or any rest at night. Or any fun at all, for that matter. We have beautiful scenery, each other to amuse, and we are in China!

Lost in Translation

On this, my second trip to Myanmar, I was determined to improve upon my Burmese language skills and really attempt to incorporate myself into conversations. This would mean that I would need to expand upon my current mastery of the language, which consisted of one word. This would require real effort. On my mini-tour of Asia just one year ago, I had been amazed at how each country I landed in, seemed to have a much more bizarre-looking written language than the country prior. Myanmar was the last stop and it seemed that when written, Burmese was a series of intermittently placed "O's" and upside down "J's," all hanging from a bar, like the tail of a monkey. Still, I was determined to be able to add Burmese to my resume by the end of the trip.

Burmese is a tonal language, similar to Cantonese in this aspect, and this means that there can be several different meanings to one phrase. It just depends on the emphasis that is placed on certain syllables. Let this be a cautionary (albeit humorous) tale for any budding Burmese speakers out there.

I arrived, happily reunited with my friends, and told them of my plan. They were so pleased! If they had doubts about the success of my mission, they did not express them to me. The Burmese are a very polite people, and they would never want to say or do anything that would cause someone true embarrassment. This politeness, in part, was my downfall.

My first phrase to master: "Let's go!" When spelled phonetically, it looks something like "twam me." I used this one quite liberally and enthusiastically, at any available opportunity in which these words were applicable. Going shopping? "Twam me!" Headed to the restroom? "Twam me!" You get the idea. Many times though, I was met with blank stares, or even giggles. I just assumed that they were impressed with my ability to throw around casual phrases. Finally though, I began to suspect that something was terribly amiss with my choice of phrase after a Burmese bus rider laughed openly at me, not even attempting to hide his amusement. This is when I turned to Mi-Mi, my good friend and translator, and asked her what I was doing wrong. When she started laughing, I knew that my dream of fluency would soon be coming to an end. She took a few minutes to explain that "twam me" with an emphasis on the "me" meant "Let's go!" The other way to say this phrase was evenly, with no emphasis placed on either syllable. So guess which one I had really been saying all that time? Mi-mi could barely contain her hilarity while informing me that I had been cheerily announcing to the good citizens of Yangon that "I have black teeth!" My dream of fluency died on the spot and was replaced with a liberal dose of sheepish chagrin.

Fun at the Dhaka Airport

It's my first time in Asia and I have chosen a "doozy" of a country in which to start my journey. I have arrived in the chaotic capital of Bangladesh, Dhaka. Isn't that where all the glossy travel magazines are headquartered? On the top 10 list of honeymoon destinations? NO? Right, well anyway, I am here now and ready to start getting adventurous.
I really had to look no further than the customs line at the airport though. (And by "line" here, I mean that everyone seems to think that pressing closer together and pushing will magically make them next ). I happen to be in front of the only other two white English-speakers in the room and I cannot help but overhear their conversation, as they are discussing the most recent detonated bombs and bouts of violence. I think that they cannot possibly be discussing Bangladesh, the country I just arrived in only twenty minutes ago. My curiosity overwhelms me and I turn and ask them where said bombs are being planted? They assured me that it was taking place right there in Dhaka! Wonderful! I will leave that part out when I call home.
When I finally push my way to the front, the customs officer decides is it not my day to enter Bangladesh. Why? I do not have an address at which I will be staying. He refuses to take pity on me, to feel sorry for the clueless American girl who has clearly not yet become familiarized in the art of bullying a Bangladeshi customs officer. I am definitely going to start crying in the airport. This is my where my fellow English speaker friends swoop in, proceed to curse the officer in Bengali (I do not speak Bengali, but I am pretty sure that is what was going on) and before I know it, the nice man shrugs his shoulder, stamps my passport and waves me through. I decided not to stick around in case he changes his mind (he seemed a bit fickle).
When I finally get out of the airport, the scene that awaits me assures me that the little airport drama will only be the beginning of my other side of the world adventure.