Chichen Itza Chicken Pizza
April 5, 2011 § 4 Comments
Before coming to Cancun, I looked up the tours offered by the resort, some of which sounded amazing. ATV ride through the jungle? Horseback riding to a cenote? Sign me up PLEASE. But mother [& her wallet] had other ideas, so after some deliberation, we settled on a tour to Chichen Itza instead.
Not pictured: me dying of dehydration.
Neither my father nor brother wanted to go, and at $77/person, this full-day tour wasn’t exactly for the softcore tourist. My dad was actually grumpy about it, demanding why we would want to spend all day on a bus. My brother was more or less the same: “Have fun going to see a stupid pyramid.” It’s so difficult living with uncultured brutes. We gladly ditched them at the hotel.
We set off at 7:10 in the morning on a coach bus full of other tourists. Right away, we could tell that this wasn’t going to be some crappy quality tour, as the tour guides began the day by offering us orange juice, coffee and pastries. We had three conductors, each of whom was very good. I wish I had gotten pictures with them :(
Marco Antonio gave details and instructions on the places we were going to see, which were not simply limited to the Chichen Itza site. Tony, who was part Mayan, told us a brief history of the Yucatán province. “Don’t worry about leaving your belongings on the bus,” he said. “There are no more banditos in the area.” His eyes shifted. “They all left and became politicians.” LOL. Norma was our guide through Chichen Itza; she, too, was incredibly knowledgeable about the history of the place.
In elementary school, I was part of the gifted program, called Project Arrow. It was there that I was first exposed to the Mayan civilization, with their dots and dashes and hoop ball game and astronomy. Looking at historical artifacts arranged behind glass in museums is incredibly boring, but learning the history while seeing the structures up close was immensely gratifying to the brain. This is the land where they walked. This is the alter where they sacrificed humans.
Imagine hitting a ball through that little hoop with a paddle o_0
I learned things such as the fact that Mayans sacrificed young boys, not girls. The adults who were beheaded and otherwise sacrificed were considered heroes who gave up their lives for the good of the people. Mayans had a fixation with serpents and planetary movements. There was a small stone hump on their alter because it’s easier to tear somebody’s heart out of his chest when his back is arched. White limestone highways are blinding to walk on during the hot day, but they glow in the moonlight. It is commonly accepted that Mayans had Asiatic roots. The ball game that they played wasn’t for sport; it was a religious ritual, and the winner was beheaded as an honor. It’s false that Mayans no longer exist — apparently they are 7 million strong.
One thing that the tour guides emphasized was the fact that tourism fuels the economy here. “Prior to 40 years ago, Mayans were moving away from the Yucatán to more metropolitan areas to find better jobs,” Tony told us. “But when Cancun opened, when Chichen Itza opened, they provided ways to make a living.” It was something I had wondered about as well — how much does Mexico’s economy benefit from/depend on tourism? Mother told me she heard a joke about Americans coming to Mexico for vacations while Mexicans went to America for jobs.
Anyhow, it was apparent from the countless vendors lined up at Chichen Itza that this was how they survived. I thought about this as mother haggled with one of them for some souvenirs I wanted to buy. I had already brought the price down to 30 pesos [less than $3] for three trinkets, but mother insisted on getting three for 20 pesos. I understand that this is also my parents’ hard-earned money, but really, who needs that dollar more, we or the peddler? In most circumstances that I’ve ever experienced in any country, I’d argue the latter.
Buying souvenirs!
Chichen Itza was significantly hotter than Cancun — it’s 150 miles inland and as flat as Illinois — so as much as I enjoyed taking photos with my parents’ DSLR, I was ready to throw up and pass out from heat and dehydration by lunchtime. Mother said it was more than 100 degrees out there. After lunch, our tour took us to a cenote, which is basically a huge, naturally occurring underground water reservoir. Steps had been carved into the stone so that we could climb down and see from inside. People were encouraged to change into their swimsuits and take a dip in the refreshing water.
There was a small Mayan dance performance taking place near the water as entertainment. I appreciated the show as much as they appreciated the tips, I’m sure, but it led me to wonder at the authenticity of everything. Is that how ancient Mayans actually dressed and danced, or is that simply what they know tourists want to see? I picked the Chichen Itza tour [as opposed to some exotic-sounding waterpark] because I wanted to experience real Mexico, but as a tourist, I can never truly be sure if I’m getting the authentic thing.
In any case, the tour was satisfying and definitely worth the money. It’s different going on things like this as an adult, guided by people who clearly believe in the worth of what they’re promoting. That’s what sets this experience apart from all the excruciating historical tours I’ve been on with my parents in China.
More photos:
Wish I had brought the huge long-distance lens for the camera!
Can't emphasize enough how much I love my parents' new Canon Rebel.
Owners of the property apparently bought the land + ruins for $72 back in the day o_o relevant to the photo because they then built the Mayaland Hotel with this chandelier lol
Inside the cenote/underground cave. Absolutely beautiful.
Mother + me with the performers :)
VIDEO:
Note: “chicken pizza” is the incorrect pronunciation of Chichen Itza, according to our tour guides. But my mom likes saying it that way :P
Bienvenidos a Cancún
March 28, 2011 § 1 Comment
We took a red-eye flight to Mexico, leaving the house at 10:30PM via Aeromexico. I guess it was due to the size of the airline, but we were relegated to the outer terminal at O’Hare. It was relatively empty. When we got in line for Aeromexico, the nearby usher guy gestured to us and said, “The line for Shanghai is over there.” I raised both eyebrows. I mean, we did look out of place, but really? Damn.
I barely slept that night. For some reason, I forced myself to stay awake during our four-hour stopover in Mexico City, and after we arrived in the humid mid-morning of Cancun, I pretty much wanted to die. We’re staying at Royal Solaris, which is the first all-inclusive hotel we’ve stayed at. All necessities are included — drinks (alcohol), pools, food, entertainment, etc.
As my parents sat down with one of the staff to go over hotel information, my brother and I wandered over to the bar to order some soda.
“Where are you guys from?” asked the bartender, a young-ish Mexican guy.
My brother and I answered simultaneously. “Chicago.” “USA.” “Chicago,” I corrected myself.
He asked again. “Where are you from?”
“Chicago,” I repeated.
He looked at us. “You’re really from there?”
We nodded. Did he not believe us..?
“You were born there? Not Japan, somewhere?”
Inwardly, I scoffed in disbelief. The ethnicity question can be an awkward one to ask, but the “Where are you from no where are you really from” tactic is just rude. I didn’t expect to encounter it here, but I guess I shouldn’t expect too much racial sensitivity in this tourist haven.
Going on vacation can bring out either the worst or best in people. Spending five days at a resort in Cancun should undoubtedly make any family happy, and my parents and I would be at maximum cheerfulness if it weren’t for my selfish prick of a brother. Now that he’s arguably stronger than me and our aging father, he takes every opportunity to poison the mood.
“Shut up,” he says to anyone in any given situation. He acts ostensibly chagrined to be anywhere near us or do anything with us, always sulking in a corner somewhere. He threatens to smash the camera if we try to take a picture of or with him. He’s no longer afraid to swear audibly in our presence. I’d really like to punch him in the face, but I don’t think that would teach him to be a better son.
I used to attribute this behavior to mere teenage moodiness, but there is no foreseeable improvement. I don’t particularly care what he says to me, but the tremendous disrespect he delivers to my parents is appalling. They choose to ignore it half the time.
Now that I’m 21, I’ve started to drink somewhat openly with my parents. I ordered some banana-pineapple mixed drink at the pool bar today. My mom’s eyes widened when she realized it was alcoholic, but she got over her initial surprise pretty quickly. I ordered a margarita at dinner [it turned out to be disgusting], and later traded it for a Miami Vice [it was delicious]. My brother tried some of my margarita and got a mouthful of salt LOL.
I’m not sure if it’s the journalist side of me or if it’s simply a personal habit, but when I look at some people, especially those in the business of service, I can’t help wondering who they are outside of this job. How did they get here? Do they like the job? Is it enough to provide for their families?
I thought about this as I watched the waiters work the buffet area during dinner last night. I thought about it at the beach today as I watched the handful of Mexican men selling sunglasses and other trinkets to sunbathing tourists. I also thought about it while watching the Mexican dance show provided by the resort’s theater.
In high school, I occasionally read the blog of a guy who worked as entertainment staff at Disney World — he and the other workers seemed to hate it. Indeed, donning a Goofy costume is not considered a very good job in America. But is performing in hotel shows in Cancun considered good work in Mexico? Do these people hate their jobs too, despite the bright smiles they show the audience? How much money does a sunglasses-seller make every day? What are the ambitions of the waiters who serve us drinks? All this thinking makes it difficult to enjoy the social privilege I have as a tourist here.
Anyway, these are my thoughts from the first two days here. I haven’t done much except eat, drink and tan. I wish I had photos to share but I haven’t used my camera at all, and I haven’t had time to get the pictures I’ve taken on my parents’ Nikon. I’m currently sitting with them while listening to the two-person band in the lobby/bar area, which is the only place with wi-fi. A 24-year-old Vietnamese girl from Toronto that I met this afternoon told me that the nightlife here is better than Vegas, but I don’t think this is the right opportunity to go clubbing, as much fun as it sounds. A girl at the table next to me just said that the cover for the VIP club is $49, which is pretty heinous anyway.
That’s all for now! I’ll have more to share in a few days :)
A Bad Day, A Very Bad Day
February 19, 2011 § 3 Comments
It started with a notice.
On the wall next to the front door of our apartment, located at The Reserve at Columbia, is a clipboard where management posts announcements and such. They’re usually invitations to taco parties and stuff hosted by the apartment complex, so we usually ignore them. This one two weeks ago was different, however, so I took a minute to skim it before throwing it onto the table. They wanted us to know about renovations taking place in our apartment in the near future, which would take four days. I didn’t think much of it, and neither did my three other roommates.
Then came the second notice.
It was mostly in capital letters:
The second page gave more specific details on what was going to happen:
Day 1: Storage Tubs and vinyl flooring will be left in your apartment for storage use and acclamation.
Day 2: Precision Flooring will be in your apartment installing all wood style vinyl flooring int he entryway, kitchen, and bathrooms.
Day 3: Painting! The common area, kitchen, bedrooms, and bathrooms will get a full re-paint. This includes doors, trim, and ceilings. The accent wall will also be painted in your living room.
Day 4: All loner storage tubs will be picked up by our staff and taken to the next apartment.
My attention span got as far as Day 2, and I’d be surprised if any of you read through the entire thing. I mean, whatever they were planning couldn’t be that bad, right? I was actually kind of excited at the new floors because ours were kind of dirty, so at least we wouldn’t have to clean them!
The management then called my roommate Jenny and I to urge us to set up a meeting time with our other roommates and Matt, the community manager. We tried over Facebook, but all of us were too busy for our schedules to coincide, so it kind of just devolved into complaining about the impending changes.
I finally went back, read the notice again and realized that they were going to be painting all the walls in our apartment. This was weird because our walls were perfectly fine — I was completely satisfied with them. Also, I didn’t want people coming into my [messy] bedroom, and I really didn’t want the whole place stinking of paint. At the time, I didn’t realize that the smell would end up being the least of my worries.
On Monday the 14th, Sarah sent a formal objection to The Reserve, detailing exactly which parts of our lease were being violated by these renovations. An excerpt:
Renovations of the magnitude you are proposing preclude your ability to deliver on the above agreement, based on the understanding that four consecutive business days’ worth of hours is a significant enough portion of the contracted lease period (not to mention of a work week) that, when deleted from the time period during which I am able and paying to use my bedroom and other vital rooms in the apartment, is a violation of the lease I signed with you on Jan. 12, 2010.
They had probably already known our dissent by our lack of cooperation in finding a meeting time, but now we really had their attention. Jenny and Sarah went in to talk to Matt, and he reassured them that the actual process would only be two days. They were pressuring us because for some reason, they were only renovating a few apartments out of the hundreds here, one of which happened to be ours.
By this time, I could already hear them doing renovations in other apartments. Our apartment complex is situated so that all the stairs and such leading up to our front doors are outside, so there are no hallways, only balconies. My bedroom window opens to the same space as our front door, which means I can see anybody walking around outside our door. The view:
This also means that I could hear everything. The constructions workers walked back and forth, called to each other, pounded with hammers and power tools, all starting at 8AM. Unless you’re one of those unfortunate souls who has an 8 or 9AM class, there’s no way you’re going to be awake that early. I guarantee that at least 99% of the people who live in this apartment complex are college students. Why, then, did they have to start at such an ungodly hour?? I’m a light sleeper as well as a late sleeper, so I found the noise very bothersome.
I hadn’t talked to Jenny or Sarah about their meeting with Matt, but I hoped that with their complaints, perhaps the renovations would skip our apartment. But this was not to be.
When I got home on Wednesday night, large, dirty storage tubs had been placed in our living room. They stood ominously as a sign of changes we obviously could not control. Tired from a full day of school and meetings, I ignored them and trudged into my room. Homework kept me up until 3AM.
The next day at 8AM, they thumped on our door. I woke up immediately and cursed to myself. I lay in bed until I heard one of my roommates let them in, at which point I popped out of bed and got ready as quickly as I could, muttering angrily to myself. I wasn’t supposed to wake up until 10:30 — that’s 2.5 hours of sleep lost.
The construction workers did not skimp on the noise. One of them even brought a radio into our living room, blasting rock music to himself while I cursed The Reserve for forcing these renovations on us during midterms. As I was finishing up, someone knocked on my bedroom door, which I had bolted shut in paranoia.
“Just to let you know, I’m going to be going through here to get to your bathroom in about ten minutes,” the man said to me.
I hurried out of my apartment and felt temporarily evicted, which is basically what was going on. It simply wouldn’t be possible to reside normally inside my apartment while these major renovations occurred. The shuttle bus took me to campus, where I napped for an hour on a couch before going to class.
It was a bad start to a difficult day. Thursdays are my busiest days, and this one was the worst so far:
Class — 12:30-6PM
[sh]OUT magazine staff meeting — 6PM
AAA general body meeting — 7PM
MAASU SC meeting — 9PM
Midterm rough draft for my capstone due at 11:59PM
By 10PM, I was pretty weary. I had only written 1.5 out of the 6 necessary pages of my midterm paper, and I already knew that I was going to turn it in late. The problem was that I need a block of at least 5 hours to write a research paper, and that kind of time simply wasn’t available with my schedule, which was exacerbated by the early-morning renovations.
I stayed at the library to write until 1:30AM with some friends, then came home to continue writing. Usually after I pull an all-nighter, I have the luxury of sleeping for a few hours before class. It’s absurd that I call it a luxury because truly, I have the right to sleep in my own bed in the apartment that my parents pay for, but after being rendered temporarily homeless by the management at The Reserve, I feel it is a luxury. Unfortunately, I knew that people would be coming in to paint at 8AM, so there was no comfort awaiting me.
After getting home, I took a shower to freshen my spirit, but it ended up making me feel more tired. I had no energy to work on my paper because all of my creative juices were directed in fury at The Reserve. I “liked” their Facebook page just so I could tag them in a scathing Facebook status, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy me. Also, our new floors were this awful wood-print vinyl, which is weird to find in a bathroom:
That afternoon, Brad Bootz [is that last name for real?] had sent my roommates and me an email about the scheduled painting along with instructions:
In order to make things go smoothly and to keep your personal items from potentially being damaged we ask that you follow these guidelines thoroughly:
-REMOVE All personal items on coffee tables, end tables, entertainment centers, dining tables, couches and chairs
-REMOVE All items in the living room closet, including the shelves
-REMOVE All items in the laundry room, including the shelves
-REMOVE All items on the kitchen counter tops, stove, top of fridge and within the pantry
-Within your bedroom, please remove all belongings and clothes within the closet and on the shelves
-REMOVE All items on top of the chest of drawers, desk, desk chair, window sill
-REMOVE All Items on your bathroom vanity and back of the toiletAdditionally, please remove any art including posters, shelves, word stickers, window treatments, mirrors and etc. from all walls and ceilings.
Basically, they were requiring us to completely move out of the apartment while still keeping our things in it. How this would be possible I couldn’t even fathom. I released some of my 3AM anger in an email response:
Brad,
Frankly, I consider your requests to be unreasonable. I wonder if you truly realize the ridiculousness of what you have required. I can’t decide what’s more inconsiderate, forcing us to essentially pack up all of our belongings, forcibly ousting us from our homes at an hour that would be unreasonable even if we weren’t college students, or forcibly depriving us of privacy in our own homes for a prolonged period of time. Even the few days’ notice you gave was not sufficient enough to compensate for these unwarranted and unwanted renovations.
I find these events to be grievously rude and would like to know the thought process behind these decisions. After the hours I’ve spent packing my things and losing sleep in the past few days, I feel that I at least deserve that.
By 6AM, I only had four pages of my paper done, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to squeeze any more out of me. I love my capstone class and cringed at the thought of my professor reading such crappy work, but due to the events of the week, I simply couldn’t prioritize it. I sent in the shoddy draft and tried to clean my room. I didn’t even know where to begin. Clean out my entire closet? Remove everything from every available surface except my bed? Can you imagine if someone came in and forced you to do that so they could repaint your already well-painted walls? It’s impossible to justify. I also had to pack away my 32-inch TV by myself, which was heavy and not fun.
Grace, who lives in the apartment next to us, commented on my Facebook status while I was cleaning. Her apartment was also undergoing the renovations, but instead of being angry, she seemed placid as she wrote “it’ll all be over soon” and “it’s not that bad.” I was bewildered.
The painters started gathering outside our door at 7:30. My blinds were open very slightly, so I could both see and hear them hanging about like idle vultures, which was sincerely creepy. At 8AM, they started thumping on our door. My roommates and I were all awake and scrambling to finish packing, but we scattered back to our rooms and ignored the knocking. The banging got louder and more persistent.
On one hand, I obviously didn’t want them to come in. On the other hand, these painters were simply doing their jobs, and because the management had already indicated that they would force their way in if necessary, I didn’t want to anger the people who would be working in our apartment all day. It was a scary thought. So I let them in. I didn’t leave my room until 9AM, and even by then I wasn’t able to finish putting away everything. It simply was not possible.
Jenny said that she talked to some of the painters while they were here, and they also couldn’t understand why they were doing this job at this time. Something is clearly wrong with the management at this apartment.
Until now, I haven’t mentioned another very important detail: On Friday night, I was going to perform in Mizzou Idol, a singing competition hosted in the largest auditorium on campus. It was kind of a big deal; I had made it through two rounds of auditions to be one of the final 16 performing in the show. I didn’t want to be singing on zero sleep, but I didn’t really have a choice, did I? I wouldn’t even be able to come home and change or prepare before the show, so I literally had to haul my dress, heels, makeup and accessories around with me on campus the whole day.
I was exhausted. It didn’t help that due to my busyness, I had been eating nothing but junk food for three days. After class, I went to do soundcheck for Mizzou Idol. I crashed for two hours in a friend’s apartment and then for another two hours in another friend’s dorm room. The feeling of not being allowed to go home was ludicrous. Brad Bootz replied to my email with this reasoning:
The renovations are an attempt by us to meet and overcome the concerns expressed by our residents via survey; we feel the benefits of giving our residents an updated and much appreciated interior far outweighs the inconvenience imposed during the few days of renovation. The majority of our fellow Reserve residents have come to this mutual consensus; we do, however, realize that each individual will have different circumstances influencing their opinion on this matter. An early start was based upon the presumption that you would prefer to have your apartment back to original condition as early in the evening as possible, enabling you to move your belongings sooner than later to their respective locations.
Is he kidding us? Who asked for this?!?
After I got home at around midnight on Friday, my room was in total disarray:
I had to spend another hour clearing everything off my bed before I could crawl in and genuinely rest. This morning, as my roommates and I pick through our ravaged apartment, we are all extremely discontent.
You Gotta Be A Diva
January 25, 2011 § 2 Comments
I’m currently taking an Editorial Writing class, which is basically teaching us to write our opinions persuasively and effectively. “Don’t be afraid to have an opinion,” my professor says. In fact, we’ll probably fail if we don’t present our opinions with enough punch and bias. Upon reflection, I find that I try to stay somewhat neutral in my blogging — wouldn’t want to offend anyone! But I won’t survive in this class with that kind of bland outlook. So as a preliminary exercise, I’m going to express my opinion on an issue that has bothered me for a few years. Of course, it’d be great if I could get people to agree with me, but because this is merely a rough editorial piece, eliciting any kind of reaction would be a boon. It’s a bit longer than the recommended length of typical editorials, but I suppose that’s because I have a lot invested in the backstory…
//
Sexism is pretty deeply entrenched in the Christian church structure. We have multitudes of complementarians to thank for the lack of women in the higher strata of ministry – pastors, deacons, etc. Worship leaders also come in mostly the male variety, and as far as I know, worship leaders are the ones that write most of the worships songs used in contemporary churches.
Although they compose compelling songs, they naturally do so within a musical range that is comfortable for them to sing, and my seven years of youth group took place under male worship leaders that fit worship songs to their vocal ranges as well.
My voice is naturally lower than those of most women, putting my range somewhere between the typical ranges of males and females. As a teenager in my church congregation, I was at a loss during many songs simply because they were too high for me to sing. As the boys sang comfortably and the girls stretched their falsettos, I forced myself to learn to harmonize in order to participate. I gained an invaluable skill, but it planted a small seed that blossomed into resentment as I grew older and became more aware of the male-female imbalances in the world.
Last fall, I served as worship team leader for the Asian Christian Fellowship at Mizzou. It was my first time being a worship leader, and because I had difficulty playing either piano or guitar while leading, I could only lead vocally while the rest of the team took care of instrumentals. Thankfully, one of my friends served as the team’s mentor as well as member, and his expertise in both playing guitar and leading worship helped things run smoothly on the musical side of things.
Excited to have such a privileged position, I went through my entire 250-page songbook and transposed all the songs I knew into keys that I could sing comfortably — I knew from the beginning that most songs did not fit into my range in their original keys. I didn’t expect this to be a problem until our mentor brought it up during a practice early in the semester.
“These chords make it too low for me,” he said during a pause in the playing. “I don’t think most guys would be able to sing it.”
This happened more frequently than I would like to recall. Each time, we had to stop and come to some sort of a compromise. Either we would tweak it a little, or he would end up leading it in its original key, or we would nix the song from the set list completely.
I realize that being a leader means being a servant, and to serve my fellowship is to consider their needs. If the guys can’t sing part of the song, then it’s not very considerate of them, is it? And I might be espousing my opinion due to years of built-up bitterness, but I believe that I have a point worth arguing.
Even when I was a vocalist on my youth group’s worship team during high school, I don’t recall anybody wondering, “Is this too high for the girls to sing?” In most worship services that I’ve attended, it’s either sink or swim. The women don’t complain because they’re simply used to this treatment.
Men, on the other hand, are raised with inherent privileges that they don’t even realize. They expect small things like a worship song to be done in a way that is most beneficial to them because that’s the way it’s done. It’s no wonder that women are more successful in the corporate world when they behave like men, or that women who participate in “manly” activities [such as watching football] are glorified vastly over men who enjoy “effeminate” activities [such as knitting]. In this society, to be a woman is still to be a second-class citizen, no matter how rosy and progressive things might seem.
During today’s worship team practice, we played “In Christ Alone,” a hymn containing soaring verses that are typically way out of my range. Though I’ve retired as worship team leader, I’m still a member, as is our ever-faithful mentor. Our current leader, PN, was a soprano in choir, but even she had to transpose the song down a few keys to get it within range.
Our mentor usually played it in the key of E major. Transposing it to D was still somewhat uncomfortable for PN, so we tried it in C.
“C is too low for me,” our mentor said after going through the first verse. “I would prefer D.” He also mentioned something about “most guys.”
Blessed with an eternally good nature, PN agreed. I bit the insides of my cheeks and swallowed the protests that rose in the back of my throat.
Did you not hear that we were struggling to reach the high notes in D? Did you not hear her say that it was uncomfortable for her? Do you think that just because we could narrowly squeeze the notes out that all of the rest of the women in our fellowship will enjoy hearing and following our high-pitched melodies? And do you really think that the men will lose that much from not being able to sing a few lines when our needs as women have been overlooked for as long as I can remember?
He tries. I know he tries. But I’m outlining a larger issue here. It’s tiring to carry around this resentment, which is why I’m finally laying it out now. I don’t think anyone cares about this as much as I do, and if I have to come under fire for my opinion, then so be it. I would love to have kind thoughts and think lovingly of my brothers in Christ all the time, but in this area, it’s about time they tried putting us first.
auradis 