The Mighty Altamaha

The Nature Conservancy calls Altamaha River one of the last great places. Two weeks ago, lured by its serene beauty, I put down my kayak at Jaycee Landing and paddled up the gushing water. I was fighting the current like a cockroach being flushed down the toilet. Any normal person with a sound mind would have turned around and gone home, but my hard head kept me fighting upstream for an hour. When I finally decided to turn around, it took only 15 minutes to get back. I call it the Mighty Altamaha.

Looking at the map, I realized I had only seen one out of 138 miles of its meandering charm. I wanted to see more of the Mighty Altamaha, but I didn't want to be the cockroach again. So I tried to recruit several kayakers in order to do an A-to-B run and shuttle between the launch site and the end point. It was a good plan until everyone bailed out. Going on a river by myself never bothers me. It is the lack of a ride back to my truck that had me deeply concerned. Luckily Mike volunteered to give me a ride. I wanted to do a 16-mile stretch down the river, starting at Upper Wayne County Landing. From my last cockroach down the toilet experience, I estimated about four hours and asked Mike to pick me up at 5 p.m. at Jaycee Landing.

For a Chinese blond like me, getting to the launch site was a little more challenging than fighting the current. By the time I got my paddle wet, it was already 1:56. The day was as gorgeous as could be, considering the record low cold snap earlier in the week and the incessant rain we had the two days prior. Blue sky, sunshine, calm air, fast water, that was all the Mighty Altamaha offered and that was all I wanted. In the dead of the winter, the bald cypress looked utterly naked. The woodland was flooded and grey shadows casted on the black water. The deserted sand bank seemed striped of life. Messes of dried twigs made the high bluff feel desolate. Scrawny gum balls dangled from the forsaken sweet gum trees, hanging onto life that was already drained. Even the calls of the osprey that occasionally broke the silence sounded exhausted. This is the kind of tranquility that only exists when everything is dead and when time stands still. Below the water surface, the Mighty Altamaha was roaring with all the forces it had drawn from the land.

After 3 hours and 5 minutes of paddling, I landed at 5:01. Without a watch, that time was close enough. Mike was already waiting at Jaycee. One thing came to my mind: When the whole world bails out on me, Mike is there for me.

For more photos of the Mighty Altamaha, please visit my Altamaha album.

Savannah's Chinese ballast stone

Anybody who visits Savannah will visit River Street. Anybody who goes to River Street will walk on the cobble stones. Anybody who knows the history of Savannah will know the story behind these cobble stones: In the 18th and 19th centuries, the golden age of Savannah's cotton export, empty European cargo ships came to Savannah carrying a load of cobble stones for ballast. When they arrived, they unloaded their ballast stones and loaded up with Savannah's cotton. These stones made good pavers and building materials along Savannah's River Street. They have a wide variety of origins: mostly England and Europe, some from Africa and the Caribbean. A friend of mine spotted one cobble stone with Chinese inscriptions.

My attempt to unveil the history of this piece of stone leads to some research on the history of China and Savannah. The format of the words on the stone indicates that it is most likely a broken piece of a tombstone. The inscriptions - by sheer chance, told the exact year when it was carved: 1798. The first two words on the right denote the name of Emperor Jiaqing in Qing, China's last dynasty. His reign lasted 25 years, from 1796 to 1820. The next two words mean "third year". This puts the stone to 1798 in China. The three bigger words on the left are the name of a person. The first two words from the top, Cheung and Lin, are both very common family names. But the second word, Lin, is also widely used in given names. In the Chinese culture, when a woman is married, she adds her husband's family name before her own. So in this case, the name on the stone could be a man's; he would be Mr. Cheung. Or it could be a woman's name; she would be Mrs. Cheung and her maiden name would have been Ms. Lin.

If I was to see this stone a year ago, before my time in China, I would be jumping up and down and think we should FedEx this historic artifact back to China or a museum. But 11 months in China made me realize a sad part of modern Chinese history. Stones like these, usually tombstones or plaques or monuments at temples, were deliberately destroyed during the Cultural Revolution and used as road pavers or foundations everywhere in China. It is disheartening to see them but they are just everywhere and no one cares in China. Even if they do care, the Chinese people do not dare to say or do anything. However, since the Cultural Revolution occurred in 1965-1968, this particular piece of broken tombstone on River Street would not have been a result of it.

It is a mystery how this Chinese stone made its way to Savannah. Instead of solving this mystery, I am cooking up a story full of colorful Chinese traditions, the volatile history of China's last dynasty, Savannah's romantic plantation era stories, and the power struggle before, during, and after the Civil War, all in the backdrop of River Street's glorious days of political and economic hot spot in the Southeast. A novel may be born of this cobble stone.

For more images of Savannah's Historic Downtown, please visit my Savannah album.

Peru

I always hated history. Three months in Peru changed me. I researched on Peruvian native history and cultures while visiting numerous archeological sites all along the coastal desert and the Andes, such as the Valley of the Tomb of the Moche culture (100 AD - 800 AD), Chan Chan Adobe City of the Chimu culture (800 AD - 1492), and the famous Machu Picchu and a series of other not-so-famous Inca sites of the Quecha people. At first I was sympathetic towards the Quechua (more commonly known as the Incas), for the malicious conquer of their empire and the merciless rape of their culture by the Spaniards in 1533. History reveals that the Quechua had viciously destroyed the Chimu, which had smashed the Moche before them with similar brutality. The rise and fall of these ancient warrior cultures were as natural as the flood and ebb of the tides.

My favorite destination in Peru has to be Cuzco. I

spent 16 days there and never had a dull moment. It is the hub to dozens of Inca sites in the Sacred Valley, incluing Machu Picchu, which was a 4-day mountain-biking and hiking excursion. We began with descending almost 3000 m in 5 hours on the mountain bike, followed by two days of hiking on the Inca Trail. On the 4th day we got up at 4 a.m. and climbed 1400 steps to make the prigrimage. But once you got to see it, the magnificence of Machu Picchu was worth every step. With the dramatic mountains and valleys and precipitation in the cloud forests, there are many excellent locations for kayaking and white water rafting. Horseback riding gave my legs a break but did not save my butt. Fortunately, you could get a massage for about US$8. In the mountain villages, for about 30 cents, you could try Chicha, an indigenous beer prepared by collecting fresh maize in the morning, chewing it up and spitting the mush into a pot and letting it brew for a day. By evening, it turns into something that looks like a beer but taste nowhere near it, a flat, stagnant, and murky liquid with a revolting layer of spit-like foam on top. Try it if you are really committed to sampling beers around the world or in need of a serious purge of your system.
My life-long dream of being a beach bum was realized when I stayed in Huanchaco, a surfer's hotspot, for 5 weeks. I surfed in the first 2 weeks. Then the current turned and the water became cold so I found a new hobby, Totora Seahorse. For 2000 years, these kayak-shaped watercrafts, made with a reed called totora, have been used by native fishermen. Huanchaco is one of the only three sites in South America where real fishermen still fish with the Totora Seahorse. Most days I got up early in the morning and ran along the beach, watching the fishermen brave 3-foot swells and breaking waves on their Totora Seahorses. There were buyers waiting on the beach to pick the best catch, while the leftovers were handed out to elderly people or whoever needed it. Even I, the professional beach bum, was offered free fish several times. Getting free fish: $0. Experiencing kindness and good human nature: priceless.
I ran into another kind soul in Colca Canyon, where distance is measured by days' hike and time is observed by the change of the seasons. Fabio, a Quechua man, proudly showed me his estate and all his assets: a small adobe hut, fully equiped with a straw bed, a stove, a guinea pig enclosure, and a few rocks completed the furnishing. A small plot of quinoa field cheerfully greeted us on the other side of the foot path. His sun-burnt face glistened with contentment and his wind-chapped lips spoke liberty. What else does one need to be free and happy?

This is an abstract from my travel journal. Go to my Peru Album to see 300 photos of colorful Peru.

M is for Manatees

I am by myself in Georgia and miss my cuddle bear in China tremendously. I thought it would be nice to spend Christmas with the manatees. So I packed my kayak and went down south, to Homosassa Springs, Florida, where the water that seeps out of the springs maintains a year-round temperature of 72F (22C) in the rivers. When the water in the Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico drops below 68F (20C), the manatees migrate into the rivers with warmer natural springs.

M is for manatees. They are migratory marine mammals, massive in size, mild in manner, and mosey in movement. Swimming in the river with manatees is mystical - as they mow along the bottom for food, they stir up the muck so the water becomes murky. As I was swimming and looking around through the mask in this green mist, sometimes a huge greyish-brown shadow smoothly glide by, like a deployed torpedo in slow-motion. When I least expected it, out of nowhere, a round face with stubby muzzle, short whiskers, and small eyes appeared in front of me. They did not seem to be surprised or startled by me. Instead, they looked at me like I was slow and I was supposed to know what to do. Much like a puppy coming to you wagging his tail, a manatee comes to snorkelers asking for a scratch. They love to be scratched under the flippers. If you find the spot, they will roll over and let you rub the belly. While the back of a manatee feels leathery and rough with algae growing on it and scars from motor boat propellers, the belly feels like tofu, smooth, silky, and soft. It has the bounciness of a balloon filled with water. Although they look comical and clumsy, their presence is majestic and the encounter is magical.
With ecotourism blooming, everywhere you visit, you run into nature guides. There are good ones and there are not-so-good ones. Unfortunately, it is often the bad ones that you remember so vividly. In the Amazon, a nature guide told me about butterflies: There are big ones and small ones. And they come in different colors, red, blue, white, and black. The species is called "mariposa" (Spanish word for butterfly). In Homosassa, I visited a manatee rehabilitation center before driving back. Now hear what the nature guide told us about the manatees: They do not have external ears, only internal ones. They are buried under the skin, just behind the ears. This is another nature guide I will remember.
While I was travelling, I learned this golden rule of finding a decent restaurant: go to the one with a lot of locals. So we passed by this Italian restaurant that had many cars parked outside and decided to wine and dine Italiano. The restaurant was full of people and we had to wait a little while to be seated, which I thought was a good sign. When I was finally seated and looked around, I found every table with people with silver hair in golden age. Instead of a local favourite, this was only an old-people home field trip. I was a little concerned at that point. Nevertheless, the food turned out to be excellent, although the thought of "old people food" just ruined my appetite for dessert. I'm thinking silky smooth tofu with Baileys instead...

For more pictures of the manatees and other wildlife I saw on this trip, go to http://s302.photobucket.com/album/nn90/evastonge/US%Florida/

About my journey and this blog

Twelve years ago I came from the East, half a world away, with a backpack. Two years ago I went away to the South, half a world away, with a backpack. Last month I found my way back, with a backpack, setting off another leg of my life's journey. This blog is not in a strict chronological order. It is a collection of my past, my present, and my future. This is the only way things make sense.

Seven times in my life, I have picked up and left, with nothing more than what I can put on my back. There is no earthly belongings I cannot walk away from. I have never had so little and be so happy. I have never been so poor and feel so rich. This is a kind of freedom that you won't know until you do it. You can at least watch me do it.