New Blog

Because Blogspot has been blocked by the Great Firewall of China, I have created a new one here:

http://billnature.blog.com/

...it is slightly experimental, so please bear with me. Comments are always welcome! Enjoy!

Billlllllllllllllll

Finding Frisbee Part II

After Jen and I returned from Bangkok, an old spark had reemerged deep inside of me. It was the spark of exercise, or more specifically, the spark of Frisbee. Staying up in the mountains, I had played basketball a few times, but it was too damn cold to throw a Frisbee. Staying in Chengdu, I had fewer excuses. March was just beginning, the weather was getting better in Chengdu, and I would not be allowed to go back up into the mountains any time soon. Thus, the time was ripe for Frisbee in Chengdu.

With Gareth and Jim, both of whom we met in Bangkok, as allies, Jen and I got to work. We had plenty of Frisbees, but we needed people and we needed fields. Jen did her best to recruit from her school, initially getting some fellow teachers to join us and, ultimately, getting many of her students to play as well. Jim had played quite a bit of rugby in Chengdu and invited Gareth and I to check out the scene. One fateful afternoon we met Peter. It was a very fortunate occasion because Peter was a primary organizer for many of the sports in Chengdu. He knew what it takes to make a recreational sport work; from fields to email lists. He had even tried to organize an ultimate team before, but had limited success in the past.

Once we had Peter on our side, we arranged to meet at Taipingsi, a field a little ways outside of town. Jen and I sent out text messages to as many people we could think of in an attempt to draw anybody we may have missed. That Friday evening we were off to the fields and did not quite know what to expect. We showed up and found five or six teachers from Jen's school, Meishi, Gareth along with three co-workers from Huaxi, and Peter and Jim from rugby. We had a game!

We started by doing our best to explain how to throw. Forehands, backhands, and, of course, the hammer. The Kiwi gym teacher from Meishi became very fond the hammer, teaching all of the kids how to throw it in gym class. After a brief discussion of the rules, we started playing.

Not everybody really knew what was going on, but I think a fun time was had by all. We were playing Frisbee, after all, and I was elated. Eventually, a weekly Sunday game would accompany our weekly Friday game until people may have gotten over loaded. We tried different fields and eventually settled on having a small practice session on Fridays and big games on Sundays.

Over time, we began to have more and more people show up. As I mentioned earlier, Matt began to teach Frisbee at school and nearly a dozen of Meishi students joined the games, making numbers no longer an issue. We also encountered another small group of local Chinese players who had been playing independently for some time. We were excited to have them join us. They really added quite a bit of skill to the games. A friend from the Southwest Nationalities University got in touch with me and said that his friend would like to play. Eventually he and many more friends started to come. At one practice, I remember, five languages were being spoken on the field at one time: English, Chinese, Tibetan, Korean, and Urdu. Something had really started! http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2267714&id=1505459&l=4982f858f0

We continued to play every week. I was very happy. I had also begun to take Taiji (Tai Chi) classes three times a week, so every Sunday I would practice Taiji for two hours and then race home on my bike to make it to Frisbee. Sometimes I would even go straight to Frisbee and bring my Taiji sword. By the end of those days I was always very tired, but I would feel excellent. Biking and Frisbee would tire me out quite a bit, but all of the stretching and calisthenics of Taiji helped me stay balanced and healthy; gradually growing stronger and avoiding injury.

Eventually it was time to go. My old friend, Spike, was getting married at the beginning of June and I would be the best man at the wedding. Chinese Nationals (http://chinaupa.fiveultimate.com/?q=en) would be in the middle of May in Beijing. Thus, I made a plan. I would go to Beijing, stay with my old teacher for a week, see sights, and play frisbee. After it was all done, I would go back to the States and attend College Nationals (http://college2009.upa.org/) the following weekend. Night Train of my alma mater, UVA, would be attending for the first time in UVA Ultimate history (as a 4th seed, no less!). I was very excited for all of this.

I left Chengdu Ultimate, unsure of whether it would still be there when I got back. After all, Jen, Gareth, and I all would be in Beijing and then Gareth would be traveling a bit afterward. Without the initial group present, would the games still go on? Fortunately, after a wonderful week in Beijing, experiencing life as a Tibetan house guest, seeing the Great Wall, Summer Palace, and Forbidden City, playing in Chinese Nationals with the Shanghai team, flying back to the States, attending College Nationals with many fellow UVA alumni, starting a project at the Library of Congress, studying for the GRE (I've yet to take it), and attending Spike's wedding as the best man; I am happy to say that, from what I've been told, Chengdu Ultimate still lives.

Having returned to the States and played some out here, I am reminded of where I come from and why I play. In the past two months I have played in pick-up games in Chengdu with good friends, played at a national tournament in Beijing with new friends, watched a national tournament in Ohio with old friends, played in a D-league tournament in Washington DC with my father's team, played summer league in Charlottesville with old friends, and thrown a lot in my front yard with my little brother. I love this game and I love these people. Thoughts and stresses of work and money, of inadequacy and survival, shrink and fade until all that is left is that lovely plastic disc floating in space and dancing with my fingertips.

Finding Frisbee

What do you do with your time? If you asked me this question, at different times, I would give different answers. As a young man, I would listen to punk rock music and play frisbee. As an older young man, I would go to parties and play frisbee. As a college student, I would practice Buddhism, study chemistry, and play frisbee. When I first came to China, however, I did many things, but playing frisbee was rarely one of them. It was not a lack of interest; I brought ten discs with me from the States. It was not even a lack of opportunity; I lived with Jen most of the time and she was just as eager to play as I was. For whatever reason, I could not find it in me. I did not play frisbee.

As you can see, I have not written in a while. I had three sequential New Years this year, starting with the Gregorian New Year on January 1st. I wrote a bit about this, so I will save the details. This was followed by the Chinese New Year on January 26th and the subsequent Spring Festival. I had a crazy trip in the snow, hitch hiking up into the mountains of western Sichuan and meeting some exceptional human beings. When I came back, Jen and I hopped on the train to Lhasa. It took two days of living like a sardine to get there, but I would argue that it was certainly worth it. We visited many monasteries, bought many souvenirs, and made many friends. Here is a photo summary:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2254762&id=1505459&l=f8824ba809
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2254752&id=1505459&l=cb70d55c2f
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2254754&id=1505459&l=dc84342ce0.

Shortly after we came back to Chengdu and Jen returned to work, there was a frisbee hat tournament in Bangkok, Thailand. Jen and I impulsively decided to go and hopped on a plane. When we arrived in Thailand, I could not believe the flight attendant who was speaking on the intercom, "Welcome to Thailand, the local time is 2:45pm, and the temperature is approximately thirty-two degrees." Now, of course, she meant Celsius. Thirty-two degrees Celsius. That's nearly ninety degrees. In February. After the coldest few months of my life up in the mountains.

We got off the plane and walked through security. Even the airport had grand statues of wrathful deities; probably to scare those without proper documents. We took a taxi into the heart of Bangkok. The highway was beautiful. There were rows of what probably were Thai Bodhisattvas and deities with pointy hair and folded hands greeting us on our way in. What a beautifully decorated infrastructure. I was very impressed.

Because of the impulsive nature of this adventure, we did not get a hotel room in time to get a cheap room near the fields with air condition. We got a "fan room," which sounded reasonable at the time, but turned out to be very hot. We went downstairs from our room and indulged in one of the main events of the weekend: Thai food. It was great. Thai food is usually great in the States, but something about the freshness or the flavor just made these meals stand out. Afterward we made our way to the tournament registration party at a local Irish pub. We signed up, got our gear, got some good beer, and starting making friends. We met many new characters but one encounter was particularly serendipitous.

I was complaining to someone about how Jen and I live in such a big Chinese city, but there was no frisbee to play. They asked what city I lived in and, having replied Chengdu, they said "that guy right behind just said the same thing to me!" I turned around and there was Gareth. Shaggy hair and needing a shave, he said that he has been editing essays for a journal based in the Huaxi Hospital in the center of Chengdu for the past few months. He had played Ultimate in college in St. Louis and was itching to get some frisbee started in Chengdu. I chatted with him some more, gave him my email, and thus it began.

Saturday morning Jen and I made our way to the tournament. We were playing on pristine fields in the middle of a military complex surrounded by Thai guards with wide smiles and big guns. When warming up in the morning sun made me sweat and wheeze, I got a bit nervous of the games to come. It was hot. And I was out of shape. Go here for some pictures:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2257400&id=1505459&l=756e52c483
http://picasaweb.google.co.th/bangkokhattourney.

After many games, thai iced teas (they were sold in 7-11s like slurpees!), and a thai massage, the tournament was over and it was time to go home. It was a short weekend, but life would not be the same after we returned.

Chengdu and Kangding Chistmases

I just had my first Christmas away from Home. As a child and throughout all of high school we generally would have Christmas at our house; the first sibling to wake up would then wake up everybody else and we would have a nice time of ripping wrapping paper, taking pictures, and finding, or not finding, what we were looking for. Being from a family of five children, there was generally at least one child who had very high and unmet expectations each Christmas. Sometimes it was me, sometimes it was Jim or John or Kate or Joe. This child would want a present which is great, sometimes something ineffable in its greatness, and would think "Under all of that wrapping there has got to be what I am looking for." And, despite the best motivations and Santa's best efforts, this child would not find their expectations under the tree.

This hopeful child would open his or her first present and their heart would sink a little bit. An Etch a Sketch? Really? No matter, that was a small present. There are plenty of other, bigger, nicer, shinier presents tagged with my name under that tree. I'm sure I'll find it by the end of the morning! After all wrappers had been unwrapped and all ties untied, this wretched child would sit there with a small hole in the heart. Different people react differently to this feeling; the more childish would turn sour, make a scene, and end up in their room shortly afterward. The slightly more mature would bury the feeling, smile, and say thank you for all of the presents. Very seldom would the disappointed child seek the source of their disappointment.

It is interesting to reflect on such experiences now that I have had one of my first Christmases missing such sentiments. Jen went back to the States for the Holidays but, before she left, we had a small celebration and I got to see her students put on a cute Christmas performance. There were dances and songs from other classes and Jen's students put on a radio-play adaptation of O. Henry's The Gift of the Magi. The night before Jen left we wrapped some presents for each other, placed them in a circle around some flowers, and topped the night off by going out to Wuhouci, the Tibetan part of the city, and having some Christmas tukpa (Tibetan noodles). Regardless of the fact that it was December 19th, it truly was a Chengdu Christmas.

I spent Christmas Day with new friends out here in Kangding. Two of these new friends own and run a small hostel slightly up one of the mountains. At their hostel they have a fully equipped kitchen, bar, and refrigerator and know how to use them. They threw an excellent Christmas party on Christmas Eve where I, the hostel-owning couple, a Londoner teaching English at a small college just outside the city, a Dutch woman learning traditional Chinese medicine in Nanjing, another Dutch woman who has really traveled the world, an American expatriate studying Tibetan in Chengdu, another expat married to a Tibetan nomad, as well as many local Chinese and Tibetan friends had a wonderful time. We drank hot chocolate, coffee (with or without Bailey's), chai tea, juice, liquor, wine, and a variety of beers. We ate small dishes like potato dumplings, two varieties of hummus, pita bread, and Hooter's-style chicken wings, to name a few. The language of conversation ranged from English to Chinese to Tibetan to, as was the case for many conversations, an interesting mix of the three.

Nearly all of the guests left relatively early, leaving me, the Londoner, the Dutch woman, and the owners of the house drinking and playing a funny Chinese version of hearts until the early morning. We played and conversed merrily; in the manner which all activities of Christmas should be conducted. After a few games and a few stories we began to have an intimate conversation about the nature of gender relations, of life and culture in Tibet, and of our deepest interests. I had been feeling relatively queasy all day due to a giant lunch that I ate too quickly, so I went to get my jacket and went home around one in the morning.

I woke up the next day feeling awful. My guts were bubbling, my extremities continually had chills running through them, and my body just kind of hurt. But it was Christmas Day! I had to go up and join the fun at the hostel. I walked up listening to The Tourist by Radiohead on my new, white headphones and the lyrics of "In the end, slow down" were echoing in my mind. It is a bit of a long and steep walk up to the hostel, so by the time I had made it to the first curve my head was bobbing a bit more than usual. The queasiness from the morning was only growing and I thought that maybe it would be a good idea to take the song's advice. I slowed down.

I eventually made it up to the hostel and found my friends there. They were eating a delicious breakfast of fruit and cereal and baked goods. Even though I usually love a good baked good in the morning, I could not stomach looking at them. I ate a banana and hoped for the best.

I put on a small, red-and-white, Chinese Santa hat, sat next to the Christmas tree, and spoke with a few loved ones on skype. It was good to talk to them. The hostel owners' two-year-old daughter was not feeling well that morning either, so we decided to withhold the opening of presents until a little bit later. When I was just sitting there, talking and having fun my guts did not feel so poorly. It was after that, during the Christmas dinner, when I started having some problems.

Many people, but primarily the female owner of the hostel, had been working hard all morning to prepare a grand Christmas feast. There was salad, vegetables, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, exquisite gravy, chicken breast fresh from the hostel's coop, and a great turkey purchased in and brought up from Chengdu. Great quantities of time and love had been put into this meal. I sat down and the various aromas managed to arouse hunger in my rotten innards. Failing to be totally mindful of my suffering abdomen, I filled my plate with small quantities of everything and dug in.

We had merry conversation about when we're sick whether we like to be cared for or left alone. There were responses of both varieties. Although I did not voice it, I thought that I was probably the kind that liked to be left alone. I was then asked what style of food I would eat if I could only eat one style for the rest of my life. I initially thought Mexican food because I like beans and rice and tortillas quite a bit. I began to think, though, that maybe beans and rice would get repetitive after a while, so I answered that I would eat Indian food. Indian food not only would cater to my taste for beans and rice, but also offers many other dishes which I have never even eaten before, allowing for at least a few surprises down the line.

Toward the end of dinner, I could not keep up the pace with which I had started. Most people at the table had cleared their plates and eaten their fill, but I still had half of a plate of food. I looked at it distastefully and, very slowly, took small bites out of politeness. So much time and love had been put into this food! I could not leave so much unreceived and uneaten.

Such were my thoughts when my guts grumbled and I felt a few distasteful pockets of digestive gasses come up into my mouth. I had to excuse myself. I went downstairs and tried to relax. I tried to slow down. I just needed to be alone for a moment, to take a few breaths. I just needed to be left alone. I heard some rustling upstairs and someone said that now would be a good time to open presents! Even though I was not totally ready for the task, I mustered up some strength and tried to rejoin the party unnoticed. Everybody was so busy cleaning the table, putting out presents, and gathering around the tree I was able to slip in relatively furtively.

I had brought a few gifts with me. My friend, who is a young Tibetan social entrepreneur, had made a calendar for the year 2009. He had taken many wonderful pictures of Tibet, compiled a small collection, and then printed a batch of calendars in Chengdu. He gave me four or five and I passed one along to my new friends. There was a small gift exchange too. I got a small white grenade-shaped thermos. I thought that there was something very handsome and useful about it. Finally, I got a nice bottle of wine from the foreign section of a Chengdu grocery store (the foreigner cor(i)ner, as I like to call it) and gave it to our gracious hosts.

The gift exchange ultimately took the form of Yankee Swap, reminiscent of an episode of The Office which I had seen recently. The premise of the exchange was that we would go around the circle, opening gifts one at a time. If you like your gift you can keep it and the opening would continue. If you do not like your gift, you can exchange it for one that had been previously opened. Thus went the swap.

The white thermos grenade had been traded once and ended up in the hands of a new Tibetan friend of mine. He is a nomad from Tagong, so I think it may serve him the better than it would have served the others. I got some cookies and a small hand-woven pouch filled with juniper needles. It's scent is now one of the more pleasant elements of my room in Kangding. After much opening, a few exchanges, and many laughs, we adults had finished with our presents.

Meanwhile two small children (each about two years old) had been opening presents as well. They found many prizes ranging from plastic tea sets to play dough to stuffed kitties and doggies. It was very cute to see them neatly open some presents and then tear some of the other wrappings apart. The cutest of all, though, was to see their little faces and squeals of delight.

It was about this time that we all dispersed and there was talk of baking pies for the evening. I cringed at the thought of eating and decided that it was time to go home. I told the householders that I was not feeling well, got my jacket, and was about to leave when the studier of Chinese medicine offered me some help for my ailing stomach. They were five small black pieces of chalk that she called charcoal. She said that I ought to chew and eat them all. I conceded.

Perhaps it was because of the charcoal, perhaps it was because of my final polite bites at dinner, perhaps it was just because it was time, but after my first few bites of charcoal I began to lose control. I stared at a nearly full trashcan, thinking about whether I ought to puke in it or run somewhere else. After a few mouthfuls of saliva I eventually decided to make my way into the kitchen, just in time to make it to the sink.

I was embarrassed, but the householder was calm and kind. I feebly tried to gather my senses and help clean up the mess which I had created, but I was assured that it was no problem and that I ought to just rest. Even though it meant missing out on the rest of the night's activities, I walked back down the steep hill and made it back to bed without occurrence. The rest of Christmas was very unpleasant, rolling in my bed, trying to find a position of comfort, finding one, having to get up for the bathroom, and repeating. My thoughts went back and forth between "I will feel better tomorrow," and "I should take some antibiotics."

After a few more hours of digestive movements of all varieties, I remembered back to my time in Lhasa. I had had a couple similar experiences then. At that time I was quite stoic in my approach to life, even to the point of stubbornness. I thought that I was a strong and healthy young lad and that I could bounce back from my disease with only a little time. A few gut-wrenching days later, one of my jolly Eastern-European classmates approached me. He said that I looked pale and sickly. That my cheekbones were showing and that I ought to take some medicine. I conceded, took the antibiotics, and felt better. It was a vividly potent experience for me. I learned that, although time may heal many wounds, even the young and strong ought to be careful about bowel disease.

The story Mr Jagainu s tall

This is from a piece of furniture in my room. You never know where you might find such things.

On Accomplishments

The other day I was running around with one of my good friends and we stopped by his old office. There were half-assembled tables, saw dust, and wood chips everywhere. The office would soon be turned into a "coffee bar," as they call it around here. I looked up on the wall and, written in cursive Tibetan script (ü mé; dbu med) was this phrase (rendered here in print Tibetan script (ü chen; dbu chen)):

སྒྲུབ་མ་སྒྲུབ་རང་ཡིན། འགྲུབ་མི་འགྲུབ་ལས་ཡིན།

I cannot read ü mé very well, so I had to ask my friend how to read it. He said to me "drup madrup rang yin, drup mindrup lé yin" (sgrub ma sgrub rang yin/ 'grub mi 'grub las yin/), which roughly means "whether or not you accomplish something is up to you, whether or not something is accomplished is up to karma." The concept of volition is very important in the Tibetan language. I tried to capture this nuance in the active/passive voice of my translation. It kind of reminds me of what my Dad would always say (quoting a priest named Father Quigley): "Do your best and then don't worry about it."

Although I could not conceive quite what these words mean, they did stay with me. They felt strangely appropriate in describing how I felt those days. As you may have notice from my last post, I have been trying to make a space for myself in this distant land. I've been staying with my girlfriend, at various hostels, but each time there was a sense of impermanence. I was always reluctant to unpack my bags because I knew that I would have to pack them again very soon. It is a hard feeling, or lack of feeling; to never really be at home. The closest it got was in Chengdu, when Jen and I were staying at our new place. Yet, I still had to leave.

This friend and I were both trying to accomplish somewhat complicated tasks which involved many people and many variables. He was trying to set up his new office (the one that the coffee bar had displaced) and I was trying to find a home here in Kangding. For the entire week that I have been here, whenever I would meet someone I would some how intimate that I need a place to stay. "If you know anybody with a room for rent, let me know." "Do you have time to help me find a room?" "How did he find his room?" I really was trying, but was not meeting much success on my own.

I eventually enlisted the help of the aforementioned friend. He took me to an information center, helped me talk to the portly woman who sat behind the desk, and looked at houses with me. Because I cannot speak Chinese very well, I really did need his help very much. The first attempt didn't go incredibly well. The houses were too big and too expensive. I considered renting one but then realized that I was really broke and could not come close to paying for the initial six months rent plus deposit which is standard in China. Back to the drawing board.

I then talked to another friend. He arranged for a meeting with a man who he called "the Big Boss." The Big Boss is a very successful Tibetan business man who owns a lot of property in Kangding, ranging from museums to restaurants to temples. We went to eat the restaurant which he owns and had a very nice evening. It was me, my friend, the Big Boss, and a Chinese woman who could not speak Tibetan. Thus, we were in a bit of an interesting linguistic situation. Here were two Tibetan men who could speak English decently, and Tibetan and Chinese fluently. Then there was me, a young American who can speak English fluently, Tibetan decently, and Chinese poorly. Finally, there was a young Chinese woman who could speak Chinese fluently, English poorly, and could not speak Tibetan at all.

As the night progressed, we switched languages, switched conversations, and switched rooms. We started in a comfortable meeting room, drank tea, and spoke mostly Tibetan (thus excluding the Chinese woman). We then moved to a dining room with an elaborate feast laid out for us. We turned the clear glass wheel in the center of the table and spoke mostly in Chinese (thus excluding/embarrassing me). Finally, after we had eaten our fill, we moved to the central restaurant and spoke mostly English (very slowly and clearly). The Big Boss related how lucky he is; he likes his work and can actualize his dreams. He said all of this came about due to wisdom and compassion. Buddhism is not just for monks, he said, but for everyone. He said that he used what he learned from Buddhism and treated all of his associates well and was able to succeed as a result. Other people are important, he said. I think of them as similar to my parents.

I then related how in the big city of Chengdu, I was kind of afraid to go out and meet people. I could not speak Chinese very well, and I didn't really know how to approach people. It was this ironic situation where I was living in the biggest city of my life but feeling relatively alone. I then related how important it was for me to be brave enough to approach people. How it is hard to survive without others, without society.

The evening ended pleasantly, but I was still without a house. I made subtle, but clear, hint that I needed housing, but the Big Boss did not respond. Thus, although the evening held great conversation and camaraderie, I was still a little stressed out about my housing situation. I was really doing my best to find a place, but could not find one anywhere.

A few days later my friend, the one who was setting up his new office, called me and said he wanted to look at the information center one more time. It was in the morning, I had just taken a hot bath, put on some brand new long underwear, and was feeling fresh. I went down to meet with him and the portly information center manager and we were on our way. She showed me a small, but well located and inexpensive room. I looked around and I knew it was the one. I was elated. We went back to the office to discuss monetary matters and I was told that, instead of the initial 6-months rent, I would need to pay one whole year for this place. My heart sank a little bit. I had just paid for my new visa and was essentially broke. I couldn't pay that much right now!

We left the situation open, with my interest clear, but payment ambiguous. I met with another friend for lunch, the one who had introduced me to the Big Boss, and he said somewhat out of the blue that he could lend me some money if I needed it. I was very happy to hear this. Today I met with both friends, the portly information center manager, the new landlord, and we worked everything out. I now have a place to live in this distant land.

I did my best to accomplish what I wanted; to find a place to stay. I talked to as many people as I could and thought about it quite a bit. Ultimately, however, it was not I that found the place, nor was it I that even paid for it (yet). I could not have found this sanctuary in a land of difficulties without the help of the portly information center manager, the landlord, and especially my two good friends.

Up to Speed

I have not had a chance to write in a long time! Well, that is not entirely accurate, but I have felt a bit under the water lately. It was not until this weekend that I was to poke my head up and start swimming. Here is what has been happening.

I arrived in Chengdu two and a half months ago. I spent a solid month here, acquainting to Chengdu life. It was actually quite a smooth transition. Almost too smooth for my taste. I made many new friends, watched many movies, and went out on the weekends. My work did not change all that much; I converted academic essays and worked on computer files. I would either work at western-friendly restaurants which serve sandwiches and pizza, or at home, in a smallish but well-equipped apartment in the Meishi International School campus-compound far to the south of the city.

I would make milk tea on a gas hot plate instead of an electric stove top. I would do laundry in smaller quantities and hang it outside rather than use a dryer. I would throw frisbee in a Chinese school field surrounded by rabid children instead of on the Lawn circled by uninterested classmates. Although my surroundings were quite different, life was very comfortable and vaguely familiar. I was eager to shed these notions.

When I arrived in Dartsedo (Ch. Kangding) for the first time, I was very excited. I would be living here..! With these regal mountains! And this endless river! What a treat! I finally could speak Tibetan, too, and make many new friends. I was very excited.

I started things off, logically, by finding a place to stay. A friend of mine who had spent quite a bit of time in Kangding cryptically told me at the end of an email "Don't stay at the Black Tent." Another Tibetan friend of mine who lives in Kangding said to me "The Black Tent is the best hostel in Kangding." Thus I had received mixed reviews, but it was cheap, and I had few other options.

The first night I spent there was cold. I asked for a single room, but they didn't have any, so I had to stay in the hostel-style room. There were four beds and when I went in someone was already sleeping in one. I decided to follow in suit and do my best to stay warm. It was one of the least comfortable nights I had had in a long time.

I eventually got my own room. It was a few doors down from my hostel room, had two beds, seven lights, one light bulb, a table, some chairs. It seemed quite luxurious compared to my previous abode. The down-side was I had to go downstairs to use the public bathroom (read: porcelain holes in the ground) and public showers and whatnot. As the nights got colder, even my new single room became difficult. I had no heater and, although the blankets were quite thick, they were not long enough to cover my feet. I would begin the night with two blankets on most of my body and then a third folded around my feet. It would generally be quite warm and comfortable. By the end of the night, however, my inadvertent turning in the night would cause my feet to pop out and freeze. It got to be quite awful.

Then there was work. I was generally doing my usual tasks of essay editing and file conversion at first, visiting an office which some of my friends worked at. All the folks who worked in the office were Tibetans and they would speak Tibetan all day. I got to use my own desk and talk with my friends who were quite skilled in their native Eastern dialect of Tibet as well as the Central dialect (with which I am familiar) and English too (to varying degrees of ability). We would work in the morning, take long lunch breaks, drink tea, laugh, work, play. It was great.

I eventually tried to set up some projects with them and their superiors who are based in Chengdu. One day the superiors came to visit our office for a big annual meeting. My fellow coworkers thought it would be cool if I kept working in the office, I could talk to the bosses about projects, and then they could have their meeting. This is essentially how things worked, but then one of the bosses asked that I stopped coming to the office. This was hard news to take, but I did my best to not hold a grudge. After all, I was not an employee of the organization and, thus, did not officially belong there. Regardless, this was the one heated place where I could come and feel warm and at home. It hurt to have that taken away from me immediately after I had found it.

I spent the next few days working at another friend's office which was under construction. They were converting the office into a cafe, thus there was quite a bit of construction equipment, workers, and sawdust. They did still have internet, however, so I went there a few times; when I had to. At this point I still had not found my own apartment yet, was driven out from the place where I could happily work, and was just constantly cold. It was bit difficult to stay there. On top of all that, most of the people I needed to work with weren't even around. It was time to go.

I got a bus ticket back to Chengdu just in time to help my girlfriend move into a new apartment. It was a lot of work setting the new place up, but it was so posh. Hard wood floors, big kitchen space, and a fully functioning (and private, might I add) bathroom. After setting up the water, internet, and a quick trip to Ikea it became an ideal living space. I could use the internet freely, sleep comfortably, and stay relatively warm. How nice!

After setting up our new apartment, I was beginning to feel better. The feeling of having a suitable shelter cannot be understated. After a couple of weeks I was thinking of heading back out to Kangding and giving it another try. I bought some long underwear, a big sleeping bag, and was on my way. So, now I'm back here in Kangding, and still seeking a home away from home here. I decided not to stay at the Black Tent and I found a nice hostel up the mountain (that even has an internet connection!). It is a little more expensive, but exponentially more comfortable. I cannot live here forever, however, thus my first big priority is to find a place to call my own. There are a few complications involved in this process, but I am confident that my friends here can help me find what I am looking for. Otherwise, I will just have to play nomad for a little while. I can do it now, though. I have more confidence in myself and a stronger will to stay here. I also have a sleeping bag.