Finally the Amah gets it and squats down. She picks up a long bamboo tube and begins to blow on the embers. This is it! This is what I came for! It is a once in a lifetime shot that the Creator occasionally gives to those of us who climb impossible mountains for hours only to end up in tea houses with no food.
I am kneeling down low, about to click the shutter when I am elbowed from the side and tumble into a pile of rice bags. I look up and see several cameras flashing at my Amah! What the hell is going on?
Several trekkers have arrived minutes after me, looking for a bathroom, when they stumble onto my masterpiece in progress and butt right in. They are noisy Europeans, rudely shooting without asking permission. The old Amah looks like a deer in the headlights as half a dozen flashes obliterate the moody light of the room. In their rush to capture the image, they are destroying it.
I hold my temper and wait them out. Finding no bathroom, they quickly lose interest and retreat to the next room to swig tea as noisily as they arrived. The Amah and I stare at each other for a second and we are both thinking, “What just happened here?”
My Amah starts to follow them realizing she now has smaller customers that her clothes will fit, but I grab her hand and motion her toward the fire. We are alone now and I shut the door. The photo is waiting for us to take it. She has finally picked up on what I am after, sensing the possibility of the moment. She turns off the saleswoman and segues into my ballet partner. She kneels with the grace of a mountain dove and tenderly stokes the flame like a mother caressing a child. Her actions are ethereal as she leans in to blow on the fire; the Madonna has entered the painting. She moves almost unperceptively as I shoot, over and over, each image an icon. We are both in the moment now, totally in sync, and for a few precious seconds, photographer and model merge to create an intimate work of art.
I shoot dozens of takes and when I stand up to give my aching knees a break I bang my head on a sagging beam and she laughs. The moment is gone but the magic lingers. I help her to her feet and we return to the next room to find the trekkers trying on various bits of her clothing. The Amah is happy with this windfall of sales and resumes her manic chattering as she collects her money. She turns to look at me and I sense she knows something special has just taken place. I sip tea and we smile at each other. I still hate the tea. Jackie Chan is smiling and nodding his head, “Yes.”
I place money on the table and offer a slight bow to the Amah who returns it with a broad smile. I step outside into a brilliant sun and think that the trail down the mountain will be much shorter now.
Jackie Chan looks at me and I nod to him and say, “Yes.”
The Communist governor giving a toast
Commies, Crickets, and Kitties in China
Pierre was an old China hand and no one knew the country better. The fact that he had been arrested numerous times for wandering into restricted regions gave me no pause when he invited me on the latest adventure. “What can go wrong?” he said and I stupidly agreed.
On this journey we delivered much needed medical supplies to a remote hospital in the far northwest; Xinjiang province, land of the Uyghur people on the northern Silk Road. That bought us permission to explore areas not usually open to tourists, permission being something Pierre usually did not bother with anyway. Afterward, Chinese etiquette required our hosts, all elevated cadre of the local Communist party, to thank us properly in the form of a sumptuous banquet and we humbly accepted.
An official car picked us up at our hotel. We thought we were going to a local restaurant so I had my usual three cameras with me, but within minutes we were cruising through rolling countryside, leaving the city of Urumqi behind. An hour later we arrived at what was obviously a military base. There must be some mistake, I thought, as uniformed guards snapped to attention and saluted while we motored through the towering gates without slowing down.
One of the cardinal rules of traveling in China, or any police state, is to avoid military bases, especially when carrying cameras, but there I was, a Western capitalist and writer, inside a Communist military installation with my bag full of what could potentially be perceived as spy tools. This was supposed to be a simple thank you dinner so how in hell could this be happening? Only later would I learn that many of the finest restaurants in northwestern China are reserved for Communist officials: this one, in the middle of nowhere, just happened to be on an air force base.
A lone fighter jet screeched overhead like a banshee as we stepped out of the car into a swarming mass of feral cats. We dared not move until an overweight soldier in tight fitting uniform ushered them out of our way with his boot before coming to attention and saluting us with his rifle. A line of soldiers, descending in height from tallest to shortest stood wilting in the afternoon heat, looking like a selection of Russian nesting dolls. They turned as one, formed a phalanx around us, and began marching us to what I assumed would be my place of interrogation if not my execution. Instead, we were ushered to meet the military governor of Xinjiang province who was surprisingly attired in casual, western style, civilian clothing. He seemed out of place in his Tommy Bahama shirt, and he was wearing the obligatory mirrored aviator shades so favored by self-important political appointees in developing countries.
“Welcome,” he said, sticking out a beefy hand to shake. “You are not writers or spies are you?” And with that he and his entourage of yes men began to chuckle and I felt weak. I figured he had taken a peek at my website before our arrival and knew that I was a writer. Nothing could save me now.
My knuckles whitened around my camera bag in a death grip, hoping to absorb it, praying I might be rescued by a stroke or heart attack, when several of the officials’ wives appeared with cameras and began taking selfies with us. Realizing my execution was no longer imminent, I allowed myself to relax. Mrs. Communist Governor, a pretty, stylish lady with a high-pitched voice, spoke in a nasal twang that would be the Chinese equivalent of a southern drawl. She also reeked of strong rice wine. She attached herself to my arm like a paid escort and I realized she needed something to hold onto before she fell off her towering heels.
Inside the yurt, there was one large, circular table, covered in white with formal place settings, both with knives, forks, and chopsticks at each seat. The governor sat on an elevated chair as we took our places around him like vassals of the king. Near the entrance, uniformed men tended plastic buckets of strange creatures that I assumed were about to become our meal. I could identify eels and scorpions and did not really want to know the species of some others. The overweight soldier whose tunic buttons threatened to explode off his uniform walked around offering a tray of fried unidentifiable critters, balled up in the fetal position that I could not bring myself to pop into my mouth. In the center of the table sat a massive bowl of sunflower seeds, obviously a local favorite, as everyone shoveled them in like popcorn while loudly spitting out the husks onto the carpet-covered floor where cats pounced on them to lick the salt. Multiple bottles of local rice wine were the final table accessories.
Almost falling into her chair next to me, the governor’s wife, Li Mai, spoke excellent although slightly slurred English. She had obviously had quite a few before our arrival. She also had a diplomat’s polish and was adept at small talk while putting her guest at ease. She asked all the right questions about family and home, turning away briefly every now and then to speak to her other dining partner, but always returning her attention to me, and all the while spitting long streams of sunflower husks ten feet across the floor. Her eloquence suggested a fine education, but from the way she formed her questions, I guessed her knowledge of most things came from the official party line and not from worldly experience. Twice she leaned in close, almost nose to nose, and held my gaze until it became uncomfortable. At first I could not tell if it was just boozy flirting, as that was the last thing I needed, but I got the sense that she needed to talk with someone other than her usual entourage. Her social position and isolated location mus
t have made for a lonely life.
She narrated our dinner for me, announcing that on the platter before us were baked baby sparrows, plucked and curled into little round balls, and lathered with what appeared to be a sauce so hot I could see heat waves coming off it. Now I have never been a particularly adventurous eater, especially when so far off the beaten path, but to not eat would have been a terrible insult to my hosts.
The next dish didn’t offer a reprieve. Li Mai informed me that it was rabbit embryo, or at least that is what it sounded like as she downed another rice wine, though I never would have guessed it from the writhing mass on the platter: formless blobs with eyes, it resembled a predigested meal. Pierre was no help as he will eat whatever is put in front of him and had his back to me, deep in conversation with the governor.
I gained some face by my adeptness with chopsticks but most of the diners were eating with their fingers, snatching delicacies straight of the platters. I watched them digging in, holding the birds by beak and feet while turning them like miniature corncobs and crunching tiny bones to suck out the marrow. All around me, little beaks protruded from peoples’ mouths as they sucked brains out of the backs of tiny skulls.
I kept the conversation going with Li Mai, trying to distract her so she would not notice that I had ceased eating and was merely moving food about on my plate. Every now and then, when she would look the other way, I would slip a bite of whatever into my lap napkin to reduce the volume on my plate. It also helped that round after round of rice wine toasts were being offered and the liquor was adding to the volume of table conversation. When it came my turn to offer a toast I mumbled something about international friendship, that when translated, brought a round of cheers and everyone threw back another round. That is when I felt a sharp pain in my leg.
I reached under the table thinking perhaps a spider had bitten me when my hand felt the furry back of a tiny kitten, one of the many feral cats that were not supposed to be allowed inside the dining yurt. No one had seen it slip in and now it was digging its claws into my leg, asking for food. As far as I was concerned, it was sent as my guardian angel. Moving slowly, I slid my napkin down to the hungry animal. The little scavenger was ravenous and I could clearly hear it chomping away on my discarded food, but the general sounds of the table drowned it out.
I continued to covertly pass it tiny wings, feet, and various other body parts. The kitten did its best to vacuum up food as quickly as I could feed it, and our hosts, sucking up the wine as though it were going extinct, appeared none the wiser about my secret helper. I had been saved.
We got a rhythm going, the cat and I, working as a team. In a few seconds we were an assembly line, as efficient as a McDonalds drive-through, working at full tilt as I picked up body parts with my chopsticks and conveniently dropped them into my lap napkin on the way to my mouth, grateful for the alcohol that was making the dining crowd oblivious to everything but their immediate meal.
That is when the cat belched. It was a very loud belch, loud enough for most of the table to hear it over the general cacophony, especially Li Mai who laughed and slipped a drunken arm over my shoulder. I would not have thought such an epic sound could issue from such a tiny animal, but just then, it sounded to me like trumpets before the walls of Jericho. I slumped in my chair asking God to swallow me into the earth. Then the Governor got up slowly on very unstable legs and I figured he was about to call for his troops to haul me away when he raised his glass in my direction, and offered a formal toast.
Everyone came to their feet while Li Mai motioned for me to remain seated. The governor thought that I was the belcher, and that I was paying compliments to one and all, and he said how considerate it was for a foreigner to know so much about their ways. With that, everyone raised their glass to me as I felt my lily white Western face turning bright red. The kitten had not only saved me from dinner, but had given me great face by complimenting the meal. Minor as that incident was on the world stage, I doubt that any animal has ever done more for Sino-American relations with a simple bodily function.
As the evening wound down, I managed to fortify myself with handfuls of sunflower seeds as I had not eaten anything else all day. Pierre and I paid our respects, and as we climbed into the car for the ride back to the city, I was surprised when Li Mai got in beside me holding a glass of wine for the road, saying she was joining us as she had business to attend to the following day in town.
I was lost in thought for several minutes, realizing I had narrowly missed causing an international incident, but had met high-ranking Communist officials and photographed them inside a military installation. Instead of being executed, I might have a good story to tell. All in all, it was quite a coup and I was feeling rather full of myself.
That is when Li Mai rolled up the security window so the driver could not hear us and said to me, “I could not eat much of that stuff either. Why don’t we stop and get a burger on the way?”
Then she turned and purred to Pierre, “So, are you married?”
My wayward finger
Burrowing Beneath Budapest
Travel writing can be a dangerous profession, especially when you are staying in a luxury hotel.
It was my final two days at the venerable Gellart in Budapest, a grand and aging old world hangout of the rich and famous whose rooms are each named for the illustrious personages that have occupied them.
I wanted photos of the hotel’s subterranean mineral baths for a magazine article and was up at the crack of dawn to take them before anyone would be bathing, so imagine my surprise when I walked in with my camera to find it occupied by two dozen naked and very hairy men. No one told me that the wee hours were when the city’s municipal workers occupied the baths for free.
We all froze in place; they, staring at my camera; and me, staring at shortcomings I had no desire to see so early in the morning, if ever. In that finite moment, when an illogical image from a crisis fixes itself in your mind, it struck me that all of the gentlemen before me had very large mustaches. Without lingering on that thought, I beat a hasty retreat as various threats of violence were being hurled my way.
Not yet realizing the severity of my faux pas, I made it as far as the concierge desk before it dawned on me that I could not show my face again anywhere in the hotel without fingers pointing at the resident pervert. I was saved by a brochure on the concierge’s desk.
It seems that Budapest sits atop a massive system of caves, carved over the eons by swift-flowing thermal springs, the very same springs that feed the baths that I had just fled. The brochure advertised three different sets of caves that were open to the public for tours. With my wife giggling about my early morning encounter, she informed me that she could occupy the baths with impunity, and intended to spend the day doing so. I hopped on a bus to spend my final hours in a cave where I would still get a travel story and hopefully not be accused of any sex crimes. An hour later, I was deposited at a comfortable-looking station in the green rolling hills that surround Budapest.
I entered what appeared to be a massive locker room to find myself in the middle of eight young and totally buff bodies, both men and women, all of them no more than half my age in various stages of undress. I was instantly grateful that I was not holding my camera, but wondering how and why it was that I kept walking in on naked people.
A moment later, I found out that of the three different cave systems, two of them were guided walking tours that required about an hour of leisure strolling among the stalactites and stalagmites, while the third one, the one I was about to enter, was down in the dirt, crawling through cracks and crevices with a miner’s hardhat and lamp into alcoves where only a rodent should tread.
While my fellow explorers snickered at this aging addition to their group they also began to help me suit up in overalls, boots, gloves, hard hat with lamp, and jumar ascenders…curious hand-held devices that resemble brass knuckles but allow you to lock onto a rope easily while moving up or down.
Now I had never done any spelunking as it is officially called, but assumed that with so many young athletes around me I would be in good company, and within minutes we were walking through the forest in anticipation. We stopped at an ancient and rusting steel door in the side of a rock wall that our leader opened with an equally ancient looking skeleton key the size of a spatula. The door creaked and moaned as it slowly revealed total darkness inside and we all turned on our headlamps as we entered. Our leader was called Rat and I am not sure if that was his true name or just a moniker based on his resemblance to the rodents that I was about to share space with. Rat was old school. His miner’s hat held a candle in front of a mirror for light and he had callouses on his knuckles the size of golf balls. He was also stick thin with hands like baseball gloves, built for caving, while I am rather large and built more for lounging by the pool.
Immediately inside the door, the outer world disappeared and we had entered a separate reality…grim, cold, and dark. I was standing on a narrow ledge next to Rat, and one step forward was a drop into black nothingness. The Rat, who only spoke Hungarian, attached his jumars to a long rope and slid into the darkness like he was on a firehouse pole, leading by example. We all followed, one by one. It was easier than I had expected with the jumars locking in place when I applied pressure to them and loosening to let me slide down when I released pressure. At the bottom, a good 30 feet below the entrance, we stood pressed together while I watched Rat slither into a hole no larger than a small beach ball, and I wondered what had I gotten myself into.
Baboons for Lunch Page 3