Daisann McLane's Real Travel
Daisann McLane's Real Travel

Real Travel Soon to be Real-er


After 11 award-winning years and nearly 100 issues, I say goodbye to my Real Travel column in National Geographic Traveler (the last one is below). No worries, though--there will be more real travels to come on this blog, and eventually over here. So stay tuned. (click the image for a larger-type version.)




Memory, Shanghai, and My Traveler's Heart


In my latest column for National Geographic Traveler, I learn that sometimes you can't go back home again, even if you've only been gone for six months. (Click here for a larger-type version.)




I, Lady Complainer: A Memoir of My Trinidad Calypso Season



AUTHOR'S NOTE: An oldie from my archives--this article appeared in the 1990s, in a magazine that no longer exists. My calypso career as "Lady Complainer" began in 1984 and continued until 1986. Ah what nights! Singing my calypso number, sandwiched in the bill between a Chinese Trinidadian guy (who was hired as a comedy act because he sang off key and completely out of rhythm), and a pair of singing midgets. Our little group of calypsonians sang all over the island, setting up stage in empty lots, in an old movie house in Chaguanas (the town where VS Naipaul was born), and in the middle of cricket patches, and in the cane fields. I remember the smell of burning sugar and sweat, of home brew rum and Florida water cologne. I do not think I have ever felt so electric and alive as I did standing before the most demanding audiences in the world.

Cro Cro, grinning, pulled a bottle from the depths of his beat-up vinyl garment bag. "Here, you better take a little t'ing," the calypsonian advised, handing it to me. I hesitated; the bottle had no label, and contained a clear, lethal-looking liquid. It could be anything from grain alcohol to tap water--like all true-blue calypsonians, Cro Cro is a master of the straight-faced tease. "Take it! Bush rum, from south Trinidad," he urged, then added, eyes atwinkle, "The nectar of calypso."

I grabbed the bottle by the neck, opened it, took a sniff and nearly fell down. Tipping back my head, I took a good long gulp of calypso's nectar--whatever it was, I figured I was going to need it. In a few minutes, I was going out on stage to make my debut as Lady Complainer, the first American ever to appear on the stage of a calypso tent in Trinidad, the birthplace and capital of this unique Caribbean music.

Calypso--equal parts poetry, rhythm, and lively daily newspaper, is the national music of twin-island country Trinidad and Tobago (and is popular throughout the rest of the English-speaking Caribbean). In four well-honed verses and choruses, calypso delivers comments on current topics in a spicy Trinidad patois spiked with double-entendre. Some calypsoes are serious and controversial criticisms of politics, government and history. Others spin bawdy, pun-filled tales about women, men, and the intricacies of Caribbean family life.

Elaine and Harry always in misery

She say that Harry eating too much from she

So she gone to she mother explaining how Harry's a pest

Ah gettin thin mammy day and night I can't get a rest

(Sparrow "Elaine and Harry and Mama")


No matter what their subject, all calypsoes are made for motion. In the words of calypsonian David Rudder, this is music to "make a politician cringe/ And make a woman wine and roll she belly."

In the Caribbean, you can hear calypso throughout the year, but the main time for the music is in January and February, the buildup to the Calypso Monarch competition that's held on Dimanche Gras, the Sunday before Trinidad Carnival. The calypso season opens about six weeks before Dimanche Gras in calypso "tents", or venues, scattered about the capital city of Port of Spain. About six tents open each year. Mine, the Shadow's Master's Den Calypso tent, was noisy, crowded and dusty, with the atmosphere of a travelling circus. Though its name conjures up visions of an exotic, smoky nightclub, Shadow's Master's Den was--like most of the other tents--an empty lot in downtown Port-of-Spain. For most of the year, the space functioned as a trade union hall and chicken roost. We calypso singers shared our outdoor dressing room with a gang of well-wishers, journalists, hangers-on, mangy dogs and irritable chickens.

Several weeks before, the lot had undergone a Cinderella-like transformation. A crew had constructed a rickety wooden stage and canvas backdrop, set up a few hundred folding chairs, a gate, and attempted (unsuccessfully) to evict the resident fowl. Then, food vendors came, erected makeshift kiosks. Savvy neighborhood kids materialized with bottles of rum and buckets of beer on ice (for sale at twice the market rate). Now, this all-but-abandoned yard was the "Master's Den", a hub of cultural activity, a Trindadian version of Madison Square Garden, Broadway, and the Ringling Brothers circus rolled into one. Every breath was a swirl of smells: roasting corn, sizzling barbecued chicken, hot peanuts, rooster dung. Over in one corner, Calypso Rose, the stately queen of calypso (and one of its few women), perched regally on a rusty folding chair, dressed in a gown covered with sequins that sparkled like diamonds in the dust.

The house out front was packed on this opening night; we couldn't see the crowd, but we could certainly hear them hooting and cheering and whooping. Calypso, like an old vaudeville show, depends on vigorous (sometimes aggressive) audience participation. One by one, the calypsonians would go out on stage to present their new songs, songs they'd been preparing all year (each singer gets to sing one number, with a total of about 25 singers to each tent). One by one, they'd return from the lion's den, some of them beaming like heroes of war, sweaty and ecstatic from the applause, the encores, the shouts of kaiso! (Trinidadian for "Well done!"). But just as often, they'd exit the stage to a rain of orange peels and toilet paper rolls. "Trinidadians ain't easy," these unfortunates would shake their heads and mutter. And the backstage contingent would nod sympathetically. Every calypsonian knows that the calypso world is fickle. For every season of kudos, there are three of toilet tissue.

And I was up next. I took another swig of Cro Cro's rocket fuel for confidence and started to jump and dance to get my energy up, the way I'd observed my fellow calypsonians do before they burst out on stage. Dressed in my neon-colored tights and sequined shoes and top, I knew I looked the part of a calypso up-and-comer--at least until you got to the pale face and the blond head.

Calypso, since its inception, has been dominated by the African Trinidadians who invented it in the 19th century. The calypsonian, according to scholars, is a direct descendant of the West African griot, or troubadour. Trinidad's griots, called chantwells, led the street chanting and singing that accompanied the first carnival street bands. Early in the 20th century, the chantwells began to perform their songs during the weeks leading up to carnival, in temporary bamboo-pole shelters called tents. Freed from the limitations of singing for a marching throng, the chantwells' simple chants became more sophisticated, evolving into complex, intricately-rhymed verses that seemed to delight in the very sound of language itself. One historian calls these early calypsoes "word intoxication."

Asteroid exegetically

Heterogeneous metaphysically

Well to equivocate your equilibrium

You must accept my ultimatum

For I'm a man of psychology

And I can always sing grammatically

("Asteroid", Atilla the Hun)

Now called "calypso"--the origin of the word is a subject of heated debate--the music assumed its own special place within the carnival celebration.

But for generations during the colonial era, calypso was considered rough and declasse, and was shunned by the island's light-skinned rulers and society elite. Calypsonians themselves were stigmatized as riffraff and gangsters, and "nice" people stayed away from the tents. Today, twenty or more years after independence, these prejudices still held sway for a lot of Trinidadians, even those of African origin. Though calypso is historically a subversive art form where almost anything goes (example: a calypsonian will sometimes sing an anti-government calypso directly to the Prime Minister sitting in the front row), a white person stepping into the calypso arena was guaranteed to cause an uproar.

But what kind of uproar--a pelting of orange peels, or a thunder of "kaiso!"? Soon, I'd find out. However, as I jumped around backstage, "making my blood hot" as one of my calypsonian pals put it, I wasn't thinking about controversy. Instead, I recited the words of my calypso over and over again, practicing the all-important nuances of inflection, of timing, trying to feel the rhythm in every line.

Calypso is a music that doesn't require a dulcet-toned voice (although it doesn't hurt to have one, as calypso's worldwide ambassador, the Mighty Sparrow, has proven.) It's a percussive songform; the earliest calypsonians perfected the technique of using words like the rapping of a drum. "Don't smooth it out, beat it," my calypso coaches, the Mighty Shadow and Sylvester, had told me time after time in our rehersal sessions. Harry Belafonte, the Jamaican who'd popularized a watered-down version of Trinidad's national song in the fifties, had been a "crooner." This, according to Shadow, would not do. "If you croon it, everybody's going to know you foreign." Shadow himself had made his first hit in calypso with a song called "Bassman", whose refrain went:

Bumbalumbalumbumbumbum


There were other things I had to remember: not to sing over the horn choruses, to enter on the correct beat, to belt out the punchlines at the end of every verse.

Right next to the Master's Den loomed the high yellow walls of the Port of Spain jail. The inmates inside, convicted murderers, rapists and bandits, could hear everything that went on in the Master's Den, though of course they couldn't see the performers. It was said that the Death Row inmates were avid calypso connoisseurs. My dream was to go down like thunder with this captive--and color blind--audience.

The tent orchestra, fifteen musicians strong, struck up the opening chords of my song. Through a haze of nerves and excitement, I could hear the emcee, Stalk St. Hill, roaring out my calypso name (it's calypso tradition to take an alias), that had been bestowed on me like a badge of courage by the tent manager: Lady Complainer. The crowd applauded politely, then drew silent. For an instant, I hesitated. Then, Cro Cro's nectar kicked in, and I danced out to face the music.

*

Like most Americans visiting Trinidad, I'd first been lured to this southernmost Caribbean island by the promise of the "Greatest Show on Earth," Trinidad's Carnival. But when I finally did come down for my first carnival in 1980, it was not the sights of the festival that captured my fancy, but the sounds. From every corner of Port of Spain, every rum shop, grocery and taxi, blasted the most exciting dance music I'd ever heard. Bubbling, dancing, with an irresistible bass drum syncopation, the rhythm controlled the city, and propelled the carnival revellers on their three days of non-stop dancing in the streets. "What is this music?" I'd ask Trinidadians, and they'd pause long enough in their dancing and wining--a dangerously addictive hip-grinding movement--to laugh, "Calypso."

Calypso? This music didn't sound at all like the Belafonte records I remembered, nor did it resemble the jazzy, big-band swing of the 1960s albums I owned by the most famous Trinidadian calypso singer of all time, the Mighty Sparrow. At Rhyner's Records, in downtown Port of Spain, the clerk explained that this calypso was arranged in a new style that musicians had dubbed "soca." Produced in modern, multi-track studios, with an emphasis on the bass line, soca was the latest thing, a calypso that could hold its own in the tents, as well as in the discos. I bought an armload of these albums, and took them back home with me to Brooklyn, New York. When I unpacked them, I noticed to my surprise that the jacket of every record bore the words: "Made and Recorded in Brooklyn," with the address of a place called Charlie's Calypso City, in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood.

It was easy to find; I just climbed out of the subway, followed my ears, and I was back in Trinidad. In front of the modest shop, a circle of snazzily-dressed characters were having a heated discussion in the rat-tat-tat Trinidadian patois that is the language of calypso. Inside, the music pounded from giant speakers, and the narrow aisles were crowded with shoppers. I needed help. There was a fellow quietly leaning against a shelf, who looked like he might be a clerk. "Excuse me, but could you tell me where I can find the latest Blue Boy?," I asked, mentioning the calypsonian whose soca "Ethel" had been the runaway hit, or "Road March", of this year's carnival. "Right here," he replied, without pointing to any record. I looked at him, puzzled, and he smiled. "Right here. Ah Blue Boy."

Charlie's, I soon discovered, is to calypso what Florida is to baseball--the off-season headquarters of the calypso world. When Trinidad Carnival is over, most of the top entertainers leave to tour other islands, and to perform for Trinidadian emigres who live in New York, Miami, and Toronto. Brooklyn, home of the largest contingent of offshore Trinidadians, is a second home for calypso singers. They come to rest up from touring, and to write and record their albums for next Carnival. Besides running a record store, Rawlston Charles--"Charlie"--is one of calypso's most successful producers, and above his store is a 24 track recording studio that is much more advanced technically than any studio in Trinidad.

Charlie's Calypso City was a gateway for the stars of calypso, past, present, and future. There was the young, hyper-energetic Arrow from Montserrat, who was just finishing up a recording that would become the anthem of soca for many years to come, "Hot Hot Hot." There was the dark, mysterious figure with the haunting ululating voice of an Arab--the Mighty Shadow. Old calypso veterans of the forties like the Roaring Lion occasionally paid a visit, sweeping through the store dressed in a linen three piece suit, brandishing a cane, reciting the lyrics to his trademark song:

If you want to be happy and live a king's life

Never make a pretty woman your wife

From a logical point of view

Always marry a woman uglier than you

(Roaring Lion, "Ugly Woman")

The venerable Lord Kitchener, a self-taught composing genius whose dazzling calypso melodies have dominated the repertoire of the steel bands from the fifties to today, breezed in, talking excitedly in his trademark stutter. These old-timers would bump up against sharp-tongued politicial critics of the new generation like Black Stalin, a Rastafarian whose dreadlocks dangled down the middle of his back.

Whenever I had a chance, I'd slip into Charlie's studio unobtrusively, listening carefully as the hits, and the missses, of each calypso season were assembled, track by track. It was like going to calypso college. In the multi-track studio you could listen to the layers of percussion instruments one at a time. Broken down piece by piece, it was easy to hear and understand the complicated rhythmic interplay between bass, guitar, drums and "iron", congas and scrapers (a hand-held cheese grater-like device). The best records were able to combine a punchy street-dancing rhythm with a catchy sing-along chorus. These were the tunes that would be sung in the tents, then played over and over in every corner of Trinidad come carnival season.

Next door, after the recording sessions were over, another calypso seminar convened in an empty building next door to Charlie's that served as a dormitory for calypsonians away from home. As pots of peppery, fragrant fish broth bubbled on a hotplate, the calypsonians would pass around a bottle of Old Oak rum, and a beat-up guitar. The guitar was always out of tune--it was only there to provide a scratchy, insistant rhythmic accompaniment to the calypsoes, old and new, that were sung into the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes, a couple of calypsonians would vie to see who could "extemporize", or make up a song on the spot, with the most style and wit. "This is picong war," explained Shadow, who was always a regular at these session. "Calypso from the real old, old, time."

I'd sit quietly for hours, listening to the rasp of voices over the saw of the guitar. The music made next door in Charlie's modern studio was the polished, finished product. But the music I learned to love--and to sing--in this tatty apartment filled with the aromas of fish broth and rum was the real calypso, the link that connected the carefully crafted soca records to the chantwells of a century ago.

*

It's now been almost seven years since my season as "Lady Complainer." Calypso has seen quite a few changes. The tents have become more professional, and many of them are headquartered in modern auditoriums. David Rudder, a young calypsonian in his thirties, revolutionized calypso in 1986 with his songs, "The Hammer," and "Bahia Girl", which borrowed the structure and techniques of modern pop songs; he's acheived worldwide success, his records are distributed by Warner Brothers, and his music graces Hollywood soundtracks. Most importantly, calypso has opened up its doors to the whole of Trinidad, not just to Trinidadians of African descent. One of the biggest stars of the music today is Denyse Plummer, a white Trinidadian whose powerful voice and flamboyant stage performances have won her the title of "Calypso Queen" for three years running. "Chutney," a type of soca with strong East Indian rhythms added, has become a popular element of every calypso season, and the top chutney singer, Drupatee, sings in the tents, as do Trinidadians of Syrian, Chinese, and European descent.

Some things, however, haven't changed. Calypso promoters remain unscrupulous, short-changing and cheating the singers who faithfully show up night after night during the endless weeks of the season. Pay is low, corruption rampant, and only a handful of calypsonians can make a living by singing; most have day jobs. (Four-time monarch, Chalkdust, is a schoolteacher). "You have to love calypso to sing calypso," my mentor Shadow often told me. How right he was. After two exhilarating months on the calypso circuit, I had a scrapbook full of wonderful reviews, a life's worth of heartwarming memories, an island-full of friends, and an empty bank account. It had been worth it; the thrill of performing for a rowdy, cheering Trinidad calypso audience is something no amount of money can buy. But I couldn't afford to do it again.

All of my calypsonian buddies had warned me that calypso gets into your blood. It was true. For a few years I could hardly bear to think about going down to Trinidad for the season--how terrible it would feel, having once been part of the calypso team, to have to watch from the sidelines! So I stayed home in Brooklyn, listened to the soca on the local West Indian radio station. After carnival, my old calypso cohorts would pass through town and tell me, kindly, that "You ain't miss nothing. Was a slow season for calypso." I'd nod, knowing they were fibbing me.

Then, in 1990, all hell broke loose in Port of Spain. Black Islamic leader Yasin Abu Bakr and his followers kidnapped the Prime Minister, and held him and most of his cabinet hostage for one long, hot weekend. Rioters looted and burned whole blocks of the capital city. More than thirty people were killed in the shootouts. Frantic with worry, I finally got a call through to David Rudder. After assuring me that the reports of destruction were exaggerated, and that everybody we knew was all right, he paused and said something I'd been thinking ever since I'd heard the first reports of the attempted coup. "You know, this is a tragedy for Trinidad. But it's going to be a beautiful year for calypso."

At the post-coup Dimanche Gras 1991 Calypso Monarch competition, seven tense calypsonians paced the dusty backstage field of the Queen's Park Savannah, a racetrack arena that holds 20,000 people. This year's competition, the most hotly contested in recent memory, had been more than a simple battle of calypso giants. Most of the songs of 1991, as predicted, had been about the coup--how did it start, what would its aftermath be, and where did Trinidadians go from here? Calypso, this year, had been doing what it does best, raising issues, uncovering hidden emotions, serving as a musical escape hatch for social tensions and political pressure. In an hour or so, after two rounds of performances, a panel of judges would decide which calypsonian had tapped the public's deepest vein.

I was tense too--this was my first venture back into the ragtag world I'd had to abandon several years ago. I looked around the sea of familiar faces. There was Black Stalin, three-time monarch, getting ready to sing his "Look on the Bright Side." His smile was as sly and knowing as ever, but I noticed that his dreads were turning gray. Blue Boy, the shy young man I'd once mistaken for Charlie's clerk, was floating through the crowd, almost dreamlike--he was a popular favorite for his jubilant anthem "Get Something and Wave," which celebrated the end of the post-coup curfew. And there were other, newer faces, like Watchman, a slim, dark-eyed young man who is a student leader at the University of the West Indies. His cynical, biting criticism of the government's role in the Bakr business, "Attack With Full Force," had been one of the strongest, and most talked about songs of the season. Watchman imagined the ministers during their captivity:

With all their big talk and arrogance/They belittled them by making them drop their pants/But I hear as soon as the trousers fall/All the big boys in there turned out to be small...


I stood off to the side, listening to the loud, rat-tat-tat calypso backstage gossip, feeling more than a little lost. Then a very familiar figure strode over to me, face wide in a cocky grin: Cro Cro. The impish, practical joker I'd met in the Master's Den had gone on to become a two-time Calypso Monarch; he was defending his title tonight. "Complainer," he said, slapping me on the shoulder. "When you coming back to sing?"

I mumbled something about retiring from the business.

Cro Cro just laughed. "Calypso is a life sentence. You don't get retirement. You get this."

He handed me an unmarked bottle. Calypso nectar, of course. This time, I knew exactly what to do.







The Havana Hat Ladies

There's a piece about traveling to Cuba in this week's New York Times Magazine. It reminded me of a piece I wrote for them on the same subject in 1994.

I flew to Havana from Miami four times between 1993 and 1995. Each trip was an unforgettable, intense, emotional and bizarre undertaking, from the tears, lines and chaos at the Miami Airport, to the experience of trying to move through a city where, in 1994, everyone was surviving on 1,000 calories a day.

In this swirl of hardship and sadness, a bright detail drew me in. I took some snapshots, showed them to an editor and voila!--article. Sadly, the marvelous photos taken of the hat ladies by Karen Kuehn (in a studio she set up in a corner of Miami International Airport!) aren't archived with my story.



by Daisann McLane

SOMBREROS DE FIESTA," REPLIED ONE OF THE HAT LADIES WITH A smile and a wink when I asked her to explain why she'd fastened 18 pairs of dime store earrings, several faux sunflowers and eight plastic beaded hair clips to her straw boater. Since this was my first Miami-Havana voyage, I figured that the party hats were a Cuban style statement, a badge of the cosmopolitan similar to the American college insignia T-shirts worn in pre-glasnost Eastern Europe. But in Cuba, I didn't see a single person wearing a sombrero de fiesta. After customs, these collisions of Cuban baroque and Woolworth's bricolage evaporate instantly, like Cinderella's finery.

My second trip down, a lady in a sequinned bonnet let me in on the hat trick: Charter companies flying the jam-packed Miami-Havana run impose a baggage limit of 44 pounds per person. But they cannot set a limit on how much the passenger weighs. So Cubans and Cuban-Americans load themselves with whatever won't fit into the regulation duffel bag: socks, jeans, underwear, shirts worn in layers. Packages of rice, coffee, flour stuffed into the linings of crinolines; rolls of United States dollars pinned into pockets. And, to top it off, the hats, lovingly bedecked with little gifts for family and friends.

Incredible stories abound: There was the women whose hat was confiscated only to reveal her hair rolled up in sausages; the woman who marched up, ticket in hand, wearing a helmet made from a pressure cooker. I first dismissed these as Caribbean tall tales, but then I saw a woman with a colander dangling from the brim of her Miami Dolphins cap.

"This is not fashion; this is necessity," a Cuban-American woman said as she sent her mother back home to a Havana that is shrinking daily on a ration of five pounds of rice a month and little else. Cuba's economy, buffetted by the end of the Soviet Union's subsidies and the United States embargo, is at crisis point. These flights represent a trickle of relief for Cubans lucky enough to have family abroad. Even so, the flights are controversial in the politicized Cuban-American community. But while husbands and fathers debate whether bringing goods to needy relatives represents "traitorous" support of Castro, their wives, sisters and daughters pack their bags, and themselves, and put on their hats. Like modern galleons, bursting with small treasures from Taiwan and Hong Kong, they sail majestically across a gulf of politics, machismo and pride.




The Three Must-Have Travel Languages


The other day a fellow traveler wrote to ask me what I thought were the most important languages for a traveler to have. I'm not much for lists (hate all those magazine cover lines that reduce the subtlety and wonder of the world to the 5 most this and the 50 best that), but once I got started on this theme, I couldn't stop

And so--with apologies to an overused meme--here's my somewhat list-like take on the language-while-traveling issue.

First up--what's the number one language you need to have in your travel toolkit? The hands down, no-contest winner is...drum roll...

1. English

Not only is it the lingua franca of the travel industry worldwide, English is also the lingua franca, amazingly, of Asia. I remember the first time I flew on Cathay Pacific, and was amazed to find, on this Hong Kong based Asian airline, that the default language was not Chinese, or Cantonese, but my mother tongue. Yes, English is the language that a Japanese traveler will use first to communicate with a Thai, and that a Taiwanese traveler will use to address a Korean.

BUT...before all you native English speakers start to relax and get lazy, thinking "Okay, well, I guess I don't have to learn a foreign language at all.", a word of warning. The "English" that has become a global lingua franca is not YOUR English. It is Global English, the contemporary version of the creoles and pidgins of the seafaring days of the 18th century. Global English is stripped down, bookish English, devoid of grammatical quirks, colloquialisms and regional/national accents. If you want to successfully use your native language to communicate with the world's community of English-as-second-language speakers, you will have to become fluent in this other English. Which means paying close attention to how you say things, keeping your sentences direct and simple, and editing out regionalisms

Okay, so you've got your basic global language. Now what? Well, I think that anyone who is planning on becoming a serious traveler should set this goal: getting a basic fluency in two other languages besides Global English.

2. One European language from the following list: Spanish, French, Portuguese, Italian

and

3. One non-European language from the following A list: Chinese, Arabic, Russian

I've chosen my list based on global reach. You want to know languages that are widely spoken not just inside but outside their original countries (sorry, German). You also want to dig into languages that have close relatives, so that you can use your fluency in one to help you fake your way through another. With Spanish in your toolkit, you'll have most of Latin America in your pocket, and can slide through Brazil and Portugal and Italy without too much trouble. Even France is more accessible to the very fluent Spanish speaker.

It goes without saying that Spanish is the essential second language to own when you're in the US. Every American ought to be reasonably fluent in it, IMO. We're not just a bilingual hemisphere, we're de facto a bi-lingual nation.

French will help you throughout Africa, and even through a lot of the Arabic world. Once again, it's a bridge to other Romance languages and so extremely useful. Portuguese, which used to be an also-ran in the Romance department, has become more valuable since the rise of Brazil as a global power. Most Brazilians don't speak English, so having Portuguese is essential if you want to travel there.

Italian--well, to be honest, it's really not as good as Spanish or French in the global scheme of things. But it's so much fun to speak, and Italians are great travelers who really know how to enjoy themselves on the road. With Italian fluency, you'll be able to take advantage of their travel joie de vivre wherever you go, from the Dominican Republic to the South Pacific.

Now on to the non-Euro languages.

This is the hard part. Once you step outside of the Western European linguistic bubble, as an English native speaker you are in deep water without a life jacket. You might have to learn to use tones, uncomfortable glottal stops, or a different alphabet script. Even worse, the grammar you know will not help you to unlock the riddles of these tongues, not one little bit. So I recommend choosing the non-Euro language that matches the area you think you'll be traveling in the most, the culture you feel most drawn towards.

The big three--Chinese, Arabic and Russian---are all extraordinarily different. And difficult. Each demands serious study, cultural immersion, learning a new script. Yet each opens up a huge portion of the world to you, and a deep, rich cultural tradition. (Russian will also help you through Eastern Europe and the vastness of Central Asia and Siberia, since it is the lingua franca of the former Soviet bloc).

Some of us are really talented in languages and have lots of time. They will learn Chinese AND Arabic, Russian AND Japanese (while a second-tier language, Japanese is absolutely necessary if you want to have a serious relationship with that country...and it will help you somewhat in China as well, since the Japanese script includes many Chinese characters).

Other B list non-Euros you might want to consider besides Japanese: Bahasa (works in Indonesia and Malaysia..and it uses Western script and is supposedly very easy). Swahili (a good lingua franca for East Africa, also relatively easy) Thai (it's kind of the Italian of Asia--not so useful outside of its own country, but really lovely and fun to speak)

Most of us travelers will only have time in this lifetime to tackle one of the non-Western languages. So pick the culture that moves you the most, and dive in.

I dove into Cantonese.
My linguistic love affair. Harder and more beautiful and complex than Mandarin, full of sass and splendor. It's got everything you want in a language. Great food culture. Terrific vocabulary of insults. And the best thing of all: no hierarchy of class or gender built into the grammar.


Next up: Part 2: The Most Important Words to Know, wherever you go







Winning the Gold


It's always great to be recognized by your peers, but this one is especially sweet. Today I found out that my article, "Ghosts of Hong Kong", won the 2011 Lowell Thomas Travel Journalism Gold prize, awarded by the Society of American Travel Writers.



I've won Lowell Thomas awards before, but this is the first time I've won for writing a personal story about my life in the city I love. There are a few characters in the article, but there is one person who is the heart of the piece, who has for many years, patiently and with great affection, taught me how to see Hong Kong through the eyes of a Hong Konger. David Lau, my friend, thank you!

In the article David is the guy who takes me shopping at the wet market, invites me to his roof for dinner, explains all the mysteries of Hong Kong, including why dead fish still jump around in red plastic bags when you bring them home from the market.

I'm back in Hong Kong now, after a few months in New York. While I was away, David and his wife moved to London. They sold their magical flat with the rooftop dining room--the "heavenly platform." So an important part of the little world that I described in "Ghosts of Hong Kong" no longer exists. Hong Kong just doesn't feel the same without the Laus. I really miss them.

This is Hong Kong--you wake up in the morning, walk out on the street, and discover your favorite coffee shop has been wrapped in bamboo scaffolding and plastic while you slept. It's gone. Something new will take its place. If you're a real Hong Konger, you just get over it.

But I can't. This is the one part of being a Hong Konger that I think I'll never assimilate. And so I sit here tonight in a muddle of feelings--happy for the prize, sad for the loss of what I won the prize for to begin with. Oh, how I wish my friends were here tonight to share some celebration and champagne with me on a beautiful evening in Hong Kong!



Dinner on David's rooftop, Hong Kong island, 2009






The Grand Parade of Pigs



The deep, dark secret of Hong Kong's world famous eating culture is this: Nobody likes Chinese banquet food.

That's the topic I tackle in this month's National Geographic Traveler magazine--my article is part of their terrific new all-food issue.

“Banquet food is always too salty, too rich and too greasy. And the dishes are always more or less the same.” This is not a person speaking, it is actually the translation of a Cantonese dialogue I had to memorize from an early lesson (“At The Banquet”)  in my language classes. Little did I know how useful the phrases in this chapter would be: “This dish is too fattening and has too much MSG.” “Do you think this abalone comes from a can?”

As always, some of my favorite stuff got chopped in process. So for those of you who would like to read my original, the "Director's Cut manuscript is here.

My favorite part of every Chinese Banquet is something I call the Grand Parade of Pigs:

The restaurant lights dim, a squadron of waiters bursts through the kitchen doors balancing platters heavy with roast suckling pigs, their eyes replaced by little red electric bulbs that blink on and off and on again. (Since this wacky performance piece is the standard intro nowadays for every Chinese banquet from Toronto to New York to Hong Kong, nobody pays any attention to it.)

Then course after course quickly follows (usually 8, since 8 is the lucky Chinese number). A big soup of chicken and pork, with a faintly medicinal herbal fragrance (Soups, in Chinese culture, often do double duty as health tonics). A giant fish, steamed --usually until rubbery. Then, finally, little bowls of noodles and fried rice signal the meal’s end. (In a polite touch, the host saves the starchy staples until the last course, so that guests may fill their bellies with more expensive foods first).

I'm probably being a bit too hard on banquet food. Certainly the food at any run of the mill Hong Kong banquet is still far more delicious and better prepared than a meal in New York's Chinatown. (The curse of living in Hong Kong is that once you do, you will never be able to eat dim sum anywhere in the world again. Except maybe in the HK enclaves of Toronto and Vancouver).

Actually, I've been to some pretty decent Chinese banquets lately. One of my pals in Hong Kong is a politician, and he is always inviting me to his political party's shindigs in Kowloon. Since the purpose of these banquets is fund raising and frolic, rather than "showing face", the menus don't contain all the expensive show-off ingredients like Shark's fin, bird's nest, abalone, etc. The banquet organizers are then free to spend their food budget on--what a concept!--simple and delicious Chinese food.

But even though banquets can be fun, I prefer eating Chinese cuisine in smaller, more intimate settings (in Hong Kong, that means groups of 6-8). And if I have a choice, I'll steer away from the giant, noisy Hong Kong eateries called "Jao Lau" (literally, "Wine House", a term which tells you something about the origins of these big restaurants) and head to a quiet, more intimate place. I've assimilated a lot of Chinese culture, but this is where my Western cultural bias comes out big time--I still don't enjoy shouting across a big round table, and standing up and leaning over to reach the tasty dish with my chopsticks. Here's what makes me a happy eater in Hong Kong: a plain white tablecloth, a party of 6 to 8, and a restaurant with no red curtains or golden dragons in sight. Like this place, tucked away in an old Hong Kong converted shophouse.





The Jazz of Travel



Welcome to all Frugal Traveler fans who've landed on this page from the link in Seth Kugel's well-written and thoughtful article about women and travel. As some of you already know, I was the NYT Frugal Traveler from 1998 to 2004--an amazing, intense, and wonderful time to be frugal traveling (way back then, 1 USD =85 Euro cents. Eat your heart out, Seth!) 

If you're one of my readers from those days, and finding this blog for the first time, a special warm hello to you. Hope you enjoy poking through the other entries on this blog. BTW, if you're not a blog person, you can also find me on
Facebook and Twitter. (Confession: I waste spend a lot more time there than on my blog.
 
And every month, I write about life on the road in my Real Travel column for National Geographic Traveler.

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One thought I'd like to add to Seth's musings on the different ways that men and women travel. As I mentioned in our interview, I think that every traveler brings a different set of characteristics to the table--gender is only one of them. There are others, from our size, our race, our different abilities, sexual orientation, talents and interests. (The dean of living travel writers, Jan (formerly James) Morris, traveled as both a man AND a woman.)

The trick that we travelers, whatever size shape and skin we're in, must learn is to use all of our personal characteristics to help us get the best out of our travels.

How do we do this? Well, I call it the Jazz of Travel.


I was a musician long before I ever traveled anywhere. And when I think about it, the skills I learned in music improvising are not so different from the skill set I bring to my travels. A great trip is like a terrific jazz solo.


At any given moment when you are traveling, you can turn right or left. You can speak, or not speak, to that stranger. You can sit down at that little cafe, or ignore it and try the one around the block. You can hop the bus, or hire a taxi. Every decision you make changes your experience of a place. Every choice changes where your travel story will go. Every time you choose to do one thing, and not another, your subsequent choices change, too. You open doors, close others.


A great traveler is like a virtuoso jazz cat who understands how to play the rhythm of choice.


How does gender play into the Jazz of Travel? Well, your gender is part of your instrument. Coltrane played sax, Mingus played bass, I play middle aged, 5 foot 9 tall, blonde female who speaks Cantonese. When you travel, you have to work with what you've got. That's my starting point. Then I balance and riff in each situation I encounter, within the framework of each different culture and place, trying to anticipate where the melody is going. (Looking out for my own safety, of course, is part of this).


This all happens in a split second. Thanks to my many years Frugaling I've had a lot of practice. (c.f. Malcolm Gladwell's
10,000 hour rule). Life, like music, doesn't stop while you are planning your solo. You have to take your leap of faith, and run with it.

And in the end, when I'm in the thick of my travels, that's what I do. I take a deep breath, and dance (boldly, and in my own rhythm) down that unknown street.



Bathing In Fukushima




Part 2 of my series on traveling in post-disaster Japan was the most difficult to write. I went to a hot springs resort in Fukushima, called Noji Onsen, and unexpectedly ran into some of the most unlucky survivors: the fishermen of Namie-machi.

Namie-machi (machi means village in Japanese) is four miles from the Fukushima Dai-ichi plant. The village got hit by the earthquake, and then by the tsunami. It rolled in so fast and high that it took boats, houses, and people away. Here's a part of an interview with one of the fishermen that I couldn't fit into my Slate.com article:

"I looked up and saw the big wave coming. And I just gave up. I thought I was going to die. But then I didn't. The wave caught me and dragged me in through the window of someone else's house. I held on. The house was swept up like a boat. I don't remember what happened next, but when the water receded, I was alive in someone else's house."

What an incredible story! I tell him, and start to smile. But no one else in the room is smiling. And then another fisherman says, in a low voice: "He lost his wife. The wave saved him but swept her away."
As if this weren't enough sadness, the villagers also got exposed to the radiation. They can't go back to their homes, probably never. Yet when I met them at Noji Onsen, they were still holding out hope.

Every human disaster has heartbreak stories like the fishermen of Fukushima. We step back from these stories, not to be callous, but in order to be able to keep going forward. The challenge of writing about horrible events is to hold your readers there with you, in the center of the sadness, so they feel it too, even if just for a moment. It's tricky--fall into cliches, and readers will roll their eyes. Ditto for sappy, overblown writing.

I ended up cutting a lot from my first drafts to keep the finished story tight and hold the mood. But my visit to Noji Onsen wasn't all gloom. Here's a vignette from Fukushima--a more cheerful one-- that didn't make it into the final mix:


Three naked grey-haired women sink into the sizzling hot, milky-white waters of the Demon Face Outdoor Bath at Noji Onsen, chattering merrily among themselves. They smile across the rising steam at the foreigner (also naked, save for the requisite wet towel draped on top of her head), and I smile back. An onsen, or hot springs, is one of the happiest places you can be in Japan. Even when the onsen is in Fukushima.

To my surprise, one of the women immediately shoots me a question. My translator Keiko, soaking in the bath beside me, chuckles. “They’re speaking Tohoku dialect,” she says. “It’s different from standard Japanese--more raw and direct. She wants to know how old you think they are.”

I hesitate for a minute; it’s really hard to tell. In the unforgiving sunlight of the outdoor bath, the women’s skin looks droopy and wizened. But the three ladies descended the slippery stone steps into the rotenburo far more gracefully than me. I make a guess, and shave off five years just in case: Sixty eight? Maybe 70? Keiko translates, and the Tohoko-speaking women hoot with laughter. “No! Wrong! We are 85. See how healthy we are? We Japanese have the highest life expectancy in the world.”
Oh, by the way, because of spam issues, I've had to disable comments on this blog. If you'd like to comment, you're welcome to head over to my Facebook page--the link is over there in the left hand column. I'm also on Twitter: @Daisann_McLane.

Tomorrow: the Slate story concludes, with a stop in Tokyo.

Ah, Ah, Earthquake, Ah



The first installment of the three articles I wrote about traveling in earthquake-devastated Japan, for Slate.com came out today.

Writing these stories about Japanese who are trying to make sense out of what happened to them was wrenching and difficult. But I'm very happy I had the chance to do it.

A little behind the scenes story. I was in the middle of writing part 2, the part about the radiation-exposed fisherman in Fukushima, when suddenly my house in Brooklyn started shaking. At first I thought somebody was doing construction somewhere in the neighborhood. But the shaking got harder, and finally I ran out into the street.

There, I found my California-born neighbor, Chad. "Earthquake," he said nonchalantly. (I figured he had to be an expert).

So while I was writing about one earthquake, I was experiencing another. Earthquake stereo.

Like I said, writing this piece was really a trip. Part 2 goes up on Slate.com tomorrow. Stay tuned.