Band on the Run: Chinese History in Lahaina, Maui

by Ember Swift on

Ember Swift, Canadian musician and touring performer, will be keeping us up-to-date on what it’s like to tour a band throughout North America. Having just arrived back from Beijing where she spent three months (check out her “Canadian in Beijing” series), she offers a musician’s perspective on road life. Enjoy!

I had to get away from resort land today. I packed my shoulder bag and computer, sunscreen, a camera, a hat and a book to read and slung it over my shoulder before I hopped down the stairwell to the lobby of the hotel (the elevators take too long.)

No one was around from the wedding party and I hung around the front entrance for about fifteen minutes before I decided to just walk. I had no idea how far it is to Lahaina by foot, but I was willing to do the trek. Anything to find some history and culture and conversation with locals.

Twenty minutes into my walk, I could tell it was going to be about an hour’s walk before I’d hit the town. I was still walking by the grounds of other resorts and other golf courses, so I hadn’t even made it from the overall resort-world “campus” yet.

I saw a bakery truck pulling out of one of the resort driveways and I flagged him down. Turns out the driver, “Jules,” a native Hawaiian guy, is an ex-musician and visual artist who still plays guitar for himself when he’s got down time. We had a great chat as he drove me into town. The whole drive took another fifteen minutes, nearly, and so it was great to meet an interesting (and generous) person and even nicer to not have to walk.

He dropped me off on “Front Street” with a smile and wished me well. I was then in Lahaina where tourist shops are bursting from every opening, t-shirts and bathing suits and postcard racks extending their advertising onto the sidewalk like tree roots on a wooded path to trip you into the shops.

Shopping is the last thing I’m here to do so when I saw the Chinese historical museum I turned in without a second thought.

Sitting behind a desk and looking gentle and open was an amazing woman with silver hair and a brilliant smile named Busaba Partacharya (in Thai — Thailand being her native country — or Yip Gwai Gee, in Catonese). She has been in Hawaii for fourteen years researching “the ancestors here,” as she put it – or, the history of Chinese settlement in Hawaii. She’s just volunteering but has put together several documents and traced several family clans to Maui over the years.

She and I spoke some Mandarin together and she asked me all about my trip to China. We bonded over research topics and our love for China and the notion of ancestry. I stood there at the front entrance for about fifteen minutes before she invited me to look around the museum and I remembered where I was. She gestured widely with her arm in a slow and graceful sweep outward as though she were sitting in a perpetual state of tai chi calm.

I had been so taken by her that I hadn’t even looked around me until then. I put down my shoulder bag by her desk and wandered in. I already felt at home.

The museum is a large wooden house-like structure that used to the clubhouse for the early Chinese settlers. Originally, many Chinese came to Maui (and the other Hawaiian islands) to work on things like the railroad, the sugarcane plantations and irrigation drilling into the mountainside. Many Chinese returned back to China but several stayed. This clubhouse was built in 1912 by the fraternal Wo Hing Society, a chapter of the Chee Kung Tong society that has roots in 17th century China. This society formed a social gathering place and also helped the Chinese in Lahaina maintain social and political ties with China.

Around the 1940s, most of the Society members had moved away to greater opportunities and not many Chinese people chose to remain in Lahaina. This building fell pretty to termites and rot until 1983 when the Lahaina Restoration Foundation entered into a long-term agreement with the Wo Hing Society to restore the building and open it to the public.

The first floor is a collection of Chinese artifacts gathered in Lahaina, as well as old photos from the Society, and the second floor displays the old cook stove and cooking utensils from when the cookhouse was located there. There is also a temple upstairs that offers incense to various Buddha or Bodhisattva shrines around the room.

When I came back down, Busaba motioned me over to her desk again and began to talk to me in greater detail about her work. She is in the midst of a long-term translation project for documents that were printed by the Wo Hing Society that were discovered in 1999. Some date back as far as 1906 and chronicle the activities and stories of the Chinese society in Lahaina at that time and until it largely dispersed.

She is currently the only one working on the project and she is looking for help. She’s volunteering and looking for people to help her with the work. She gave me several fliers to put around Toronto when I got back there (or any place I thought it would find others, she said) to hopefully connect with the diasporas of Chinese people around the world. There’s no money in it, she said, but the translation is slow and needs other minds and energy. The stack of papers on her desk were testimony to this truth. Too much for one person, for sure.

I said I would offer what I could and she said, “The ancestors always bring the answers. Maybe you’re one of them.” And then she winked at me and wished me well. I wished her well too and told her I’d try my best.

And I will.

I felt thoughtful as I continued into Lahaina to check out the rest of the town. Thoughtful and peaceful. “Wo Hing” means harmony and prosperity (in Cantonese) and I think some of that hopefulness had come up through those museum floorboards and found its way into the breathing of this visitor.

Band on the Run: Golf Carts = Wildlife at Resorts

by Ember Swift on
Ember Swift, Canadian musician and touring performer, will be keeping us up-to-date on what it’s like to tour a band throughout North America. Having just arrived back from Beijing where she spent three months (check out her “Canadian in Beijing” series), she offers a musician’s perspective on road life. Enjoy!

I wonder about resorts. Here I am in this perfect fantasyland and I am quietly contemplating it all with head slightly cocked to one side, brow furrowed. I wonder if resorts are about the illusion: the illusion of having enough money, of having a “staff,” of having food and drink plentiful and always available that has been prepared by others, of having a life of leisure.

I mentioned this to my close family members and the response was: “No, Ember. This is what normal people call a vacation.”

Uh-huh. Okay then. I’m clearly not normal. But, to be fair, that’s true. For me, a person who travels for work, my ultimate vacation takes place at home in my own bed with my own kitchen and the quiet of no strangers and no action. In fact, I could probably use some pointers on “vacationing” like a normal person.

I’m also clearly being told to relax and get into it. Live a little. Enjoy.

And, I’m working on it.

(Besides, I don’t play until tomorrow and there will be no sound check to be on time for and no band to assemble. I should be living it up! Don’t worry, it shouldn’t take me long…)

I went for a run this morning after a long sleep. Maui is six hours behind Toronto and so I slept until one p.m. in my body and found it was only seven a.m. here. Getting up and going for a run in the not-quite-killer heat was refreshing and a great way to start the day, (especially since I’m not really a morning person and it was great to feel rested before the day had really begun!)

Not to mention an excellent way to get the “lay of the land” here. I ran through the resort section, which is several resorts all squashed together here in Lahaina, Maui. In fact, it reminded me of Beijing and the university area (Wudaokou) where every corner seems to have a new gateway to yet another educational institution. So it is here with resorts. I can’t keep track of how many there are or where one stops and another begins. They are all beautifully coiffed, however, and each has beach access. We’re staying at the “Royal Lahaina Resort.“

Also, there is a large golf course that seems to weave around them all. This sign made me laugh since the last time I saw a sign for anything “crossing” it was for moose and elk in Northern BC. I guess golf carts are the wildlife in resorts! (This thought made me laugh out loud to myself while running. A passerby heard me laugh and looked up, smiled and said good morning. It was all a really great moment.)

I soon discovered that the golf course cart trails made a decent running path this morning as there weren’t any golfers out yet, and it led me to the edge of the water and an historic plaque:

It seems that this part of the island – Lahaina – was once an important shipping port for the sugar cane industry. The port is called “Keka’a Landing Pier.” There were railroad lines that led from the plantations to this port and vice versa for supplies. Now, there is just this plaque and the crumbling remains of a pier that is no longer functional. The resorts are all edged up around this once-bustling pier and I’d imagine that not many people actually even see this little jutting section that holds so much history.

I stopped running then, for just a moment, to both read the plaque and do a full 180 degree turn to check out my surroundings. Staring at the ocean, the golf course comes right up to the cliff, which then weaves down overtop of large volcanic rock boulders on the right towards sand and beach. The resort on my left also hugs the cliff and the resort we’re staying in farther down on the right has outbuildings and cabins and various pools right up against the golf course and stretching into the distance. Its far side is flanked by another resort yet again. The beach continues, of course, and the water was sparkling.

I started running again then down across the volcanic rock boulders to the beach where I took up the hardened sand just above the waving water line. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way this land must have looked a hundred years ago and more. I wondered about the liveliness of the shipping port, the commerce or businesses that must have sprung up around it, the general din of boat horns and railroad steam engines. I imagined the people then. Could I imagine the scene even remotely accurately?

I got my running shoes wet then, daydreaming rather than avoiding the surf. It’s alright, though, because they’ll dry in this heat. They’re fine.

I turned around and headed back to the resort after awhile. When I got to the edge of the walkway back up to the lobby that led to the elevator that lead to my room (!), I took one look at the ocean and knew that I had to go in there. I stripped unceremoniously to my sports bra and white y-fronts and ran in.

For the first time in my life (even after numerous trips to Hawaii and New Caledonia) I understand now why the inside of swimming pools are blue in colour. They’re actually trying to replicate the beautiful blue of the ocean in places like this! (duh!#@ — and that’s directed at me!) Swimming under water, you could see the reflection of sun through the ocean and hitting the sand below, the turquoise water shimmering like sequins above my head.

It was gorgeous and I came out wearing the same shimmering grin as the ocean.

I then put my running pants and shirt back on, and, carrying my sneakers and walking barefoot, I dripped sand and salt water all through the patio, lobby, elevator and hallways and up to my room. I got back looking like a soggy sea urchin.

No, I should say: A smiling soggy sea urchin.

The ocean at my fingertips? I could get used to that.

And, check out the view.

One for the Road – China: A Traveller’s History of China

by Kelly Amabile on

As a sidebar to this month’s Chinese Buffet series, throughout August, One for the Road will highlight travel guides, reference books and other recommended reads related to life or travel in China.

These days it seems as if everyone has written a book about the current (and rapidly changing) state of affairs in China. There is no shortage of titles to choose from. I chose Oracle Bones to read before my departure for the PRC, but then looked for a basic historical overview to gain further background about the country. Again, the options seem endless. So I went with the one that seemed most suitable for me: A Traveller’s History of China from Interlink Books (4th edition, 2006).

This mini-textbook provides a suitable introduction to the country’s history, politics, culture and geography. Author Stephen G. Haw has written a straightforward summary of the origins of Chinese civilization straight through to talk of Taiwan, Hong Kong and the future. Any book that can succinctly squash “two million years of history into 300 pages” should be applauded — and since this one is slanted slightly towards travelers intending to visit China, it’s an excellent title to consider. The index includes a list of all dynasties, chronology of major historical events and an explanation of Chinese characters.

A Canadian in Beijing: The Forbidden Tian’anmen

by Ember Swift on

The Forbidden City and Tian’anmen Square (situated right next to each other) are the two principal tourist destinations in Beijing. When people come to this city, they usually stop here for these two major sites and then take in The Great Wall before moving on to other parts of China. I mean, these are the bare minimum.

Tourist requirements.

I had already been to Tian’anmen Square a few times and I have walked the outer courtyards of The Forbidden City once before. I have also seen the outer gardens and surrounding moat and quite enjoyed this perspective. I hadn’t yet gone inside, though, and so the arrival of my sister and her fiancé Steve to Bejing meant that I could catch some last-minute tourist sites before heading back to Canada.

I must say, though, that it was all starting to feel a bit strange. My last four days in this beautiful place and I felt like my whole Beijing identity was morphing before my eyes. I was about to leave my new love (China) cloaked once again in tourist garb. I had worn this outfit once before (at the beginning of my trip) and slowly (happily) had changed into local clothes throughout my stay. The arrival of my family meant that I had to revert once again into this tourist attire.

I wasn’t sure it all fit me anymore.

Since I wore those clothes last, I’ve put on some local knowledge.

But, the agenda plowed ahead with no time for philosophical meanderings. I rolled out of bed at 7:00 Saturday morning ready to tackle another tourist day with my family. We were meeting in the lobby at 8:00 and taking transit down to Tian’anmen’s southernmost gate: Qian Men, which literally means “first gate.”

This time, I thought it best to hire a guide. The woman who walked us around had lots of information about the sites, historically, but offered almost nothing politically. I’m not sure why I was disappointed because I had no real expectation for anything but. It’s just that there is a vibration to the square that is undeniable whether unspoken or not. By this, I mean the history here – the massacre or uprising (depending on where you stand geographically, the noun used to describe 1989’s events is different) – sits in the stone and pavement and it comes up through the soles of my shoes. When our guide was asked what she knew about it, she fumbled and became uncomfortable and responded that many powerful events have taken place there and she hastily began to explain the significance of a nearby statue.

What is it about real history that China has trouble with? Something terrible happened here and silence doesn’t erase the vibration of that truth.

Even my Chinese friends don’t talk about it. They don’t want to. What’s more, they don’t know to. It’s just not talked about here (except by the foreigners), or so I’ve found. What’s more, much of the information about such events is blocked on the internet while you’re in China. It’s nicknamed “The Great Firewall of China.” (For instance, the link I placed above on the words “history here” will not be viewable from within China unless someone has found a way around the firewall.)

I always feel shaky near Tian’anmen, almost speechless with the lump that comes into my throat and the ache in my jaw. I haven’t written about it throughout the whole three months despite the fact that I have visited it three times and have felt the same sadness each time. I haven’t known what to really say.

One interesting thing the guide did show us were the public “squatters” that were disguised as sidewalk grates. Apparently at large assemblies, these are opened up to provide the thousands of people a place to relieve themselves. Without this information, I would have thought they were just sewer grates. I guess, in a way, they are just that. I wonder if they provide privacy to each “stall” in those times? The guide said she learned this from her parents who were here during a large assembly that that there haven’t been these kinds of massive events as long as she’s been aware.

Not since 1989, I thought. Of course not.

Being there with my sister and her fiance made it easier. They did not want to linger on the square and marched on ahead to The Forbidden City where it promptly began to rain. We trudged through courtyard after courtyard imagining over three thousand concubines and nearly the equivalent in Eunuchs working and living there, trapped inside the palace walls that both kept intruders at bay and servants hostage.

The place is seriously HUGE. I had no idea.

The rain got worse and the guide asked in her sweet English if this would the appropriate time to describe the weather as “raining cats and dogs.” I laughed out loud. I confirmed that it would be a perfect time to describe it like that and the laughter momentarily relieved both my irritation at the incomplete history lessons as well as the chill that had attached itself to my bones as a result of wearing shorts on such a rainy day.

Two hours later, we emerged on the other side of The Forbidden City, out the North gates. We paid and said goodbye to our guide and then had a brief sidewalk conference about what was next.

I was shivering and hungry (having not thought about breakfast and finding nothing vegan in this tourist area) and there wasn’t a cab to be found. On rainy days in Beijing, if you’re far from a subway it means that you’d better just walk until luck turns your way. The only thing on my mind was a hot shower and a change of clothes and so I put my head down and led the way westward where the streets got busier and the chance at hailing a taxi (I thought) would be greater.

Twenty minutes later we still had no taxi and I had lost my ability to speak. Hunger, fatigue, cold, and the familiar emotional siphoning of a Tian’anmen visit – it was all combining together to silence me. My sister wanted to go and get food at a restaurant and I encouraged her choice if it was to be on their own, but I was adamant about mine. I simply had to return to a hot shower. I knew that I would catch what my Grandmother describes as a “chill” if I didn’t. I know myself. She, of course, wasn’t comfortable going to a restaurant on her own and so when a taxi finally pulled over to let people out where we were standing (what luck!), everyone piled in for the hotel. I had them over a barrel with my language skills and their lack of language skills, and I knew that. But, I also had my physical limits and so I quietly insisted.

The quiet insistence is the most powerful.

Back at the hotel, showered and fed and much happier, I emerged again about an hour later and I was re-energized to be host and tour guide.

Everyone was smiling. The rain had stopped.

Time for more shopping…

(That’s my sister, Temple, and I)

A Canadian in Beijing: Old and New Embrace

by Ember Swift on

Here in Beijing, I am surrounded by the past and the future at every turn. I see technology grabbing the hand of history and pulling it closer, as though history has a history of being afraid to dance and technology cannot take no for an answer. What has resulted is an occasionally awkward intermingling of old ways and new ways here. But, I will hold that the perception of awkwardness is likely only coming from me, the outsider, because I can also appreciate the grace and rhythm that old and new have together, as though they have danced this way for years.

Neither seems in any hurry to step on the toes of the other.

Both are equally (but differently) stubborn.

Both are great dancers.

This kind of dance is evident in simple things that I noticed almost every day here when I first arrived. The kinds of things that are strange to an outsider but eventually become the norm after two months of living in this amazing city. Well, not exactly the norm and I’m still moved every time I notice another example, just no longer surprised. I’ve learned to expect the unexpected in Beijing.

For example, most of the brooms here in China are just tree branches. They are bound together in bunches and attached to a bamboo pole. They’re used to sweep up the leaves and dirt and dust that this windy city blows into walkways and pathways. Every morning at around five o’clock, I hear the sound of a campus worker sweeping the road outside of my building. That is his job every day. He uses this kind of broom and I hear the sound of tree branches on pavement, swishing in a reliably steady rhythm, and it warmly greets my dreams through the open window.

Of course, this way has been used for centuries and there is no need to improve on an idea that doesn’t need improving – something we westerners could learn from! – and so I haven’t seen near as many plastic options for brooms in this city. And we all know how often those plastic brooms break, loose bristles, etc. Cheap replicas of a system that was once based on what we could find in nature. Weren’t all systems? Yes, I believe they were.

As I was walking the other day, a woman was walking in front of me balancing two large pots, each dangling from the ends of a pole. This pole was perched horizontally across her shoulders. Again, this technique has been used for centuries and it obviously works; the weight is more evenly distributed and she walked quite easily with what appeared to be two quite heavy (full) soup pots.

Also, in Wudaokou – where the school district is and where huge buildings are being constructed as we speak with glossy signs and glass fronts – there is a railway crossing right beside the subway station. At this railway crossing, there are four large traffic arms that are lowered (by two attendants, one on each side, not automation) in order to stop the flow of traffic when the trains pass. They use big ropes and pulleys and the arms come down with a clang.

Well, one of these traffic arms is a tree. It’s not just made of wood; it’s actually a tree that has just been stripped of its branches and painted black and white. You can still see where it grew slightly bowed in the wind! It isn’t perfectly straight and it tapers at the far end just as a tree trunk tapers at the top. Why? Because it’s a tree!

When I noticed this, I had to take a picture. The other traffic arms have been replaced with more modern metal ones that were factory-made and look all uniform and boring, but this relic of a traffic arm remains (and entertains its metallic friends with its stories, I’m sure). I’m just touched that they didn’t replace it when the others were replaced or rotted away. Maybe that’s the Chinese way, i.e. “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it!” It would appear so. (Does anyone know if there’s a Chinese “chengyu” (idiom) with this same meaning?)

Finally, in Shanghai, I was moved by the rows upon rows of laundry that seemed to float in the air above the streets. Of course, not literally. All of the upper apartments have these long metal arms that stretch out from their windows on which the residents hang their laundry outside of their homes to dry. I wondered how often someone loses a pair of underwear to the wind, or fetches their laundry only to find that a bird has taken off with one of their socks?! The colours floated like dozens of multinational flags. Somehow the gentle movement of the laundry in the breeze made the streets feel more neighbourly, as though everyone were open and airing their lives with abandon. “Who cares what people think of my pink underwear!” says the man upstairs . . .

I love it.

I love the connection points between old ways and new ways. It seems so real and raw at once, both stubbornly fighting to exist and/or remain. It seems to me that each has realized that only through an embrace can they survive.

Embracing survival.

Yet another lesson, courtesy of China.