I worked on a story for The Tech over the weekend and on Monday. In the first four hours, I pieced together the timeline below. The full story that I wrote for the Tech can be found at http://tech.mit.edu/V133/N7/hoax.html.

Katrin, a staff writer for the International Herald Tribune- the Global edition of The New York Times- in London, and Paula, a Chilean Radio journalist, try a photo slide-music-words-maybe-advocacy-journalism project.

Of Love and Politics

The first 23 seconds of this video took us four hours. As for the whole thing? Well, we won’t get into that.

Starring: Mimolette Cheese

Co-Starring: The guy in the hat from the cheese shop whose name we deleted when we accidentally erased our most important interview. Or maybe it never recorded that interview. We’re not really sure. But regardless, we don’t know his name.

With Special Guest: The nice lady at the cheese counter who suggested we buy some cheese.

Executive Producer: Brett Anderson

Deputy Assistant Key Grip: Jane Spencer

“I used to be a no body…until I discovered the internet” a young glasses-clad man says as he stares at his computer screen. He proceeds to explain, turning toward the camera, how to circumvent China’s Great Firewall in order to access blocked websites like Twitter or Facebook.

This is Zola, one of the two citizen journalists followed in director Stephen Maing’s 2011 documentary feature High Tech, Low Life. The other, a 57-year old single retiree, is Tiger Temple.

High Tech, Low Life is advertised as a documentary that addresses the challenges of censorship in China, but the film is equally a tale of bravery, compassion, and drive of these two Chinese men aspiring for a country that values truth and transparency over the Party and self-censorship

But while their motivation to risk government tracking or arrest for a greater cause is shared, the two bloggers diverge with regards to their characters and approaches to reporting. Maing follows Zola and Tiger Temple in two parallel story lines, slicing discussions on censorship and propaganda with scenes of scolding mothers and pet cats. Indeed, getting to know these two men is one of the many treats of this insightful and informative 87-minute film.

Tiger Temple is a solitary man who, divorced and retired, has devoted his life to chronicling the plight of fellow citizens shafted by the Communist Party in China.  His resentment toward the government runs deep; he blames Mao’s cultural revolution for making him homeless at 13. But the resulting vagabond life he adopted, biking around the country and meeting the poor farmers that the revolution supposedly served, contributed to a belief that loving his country did not mean loving the government, and provided the requisite inspiration necessary to conduct his risky work.

“I’m in my 50’s. I wont live much longer. I should tell the truth,” Tiger Temple states matter-of-factly as he explains why he keeps visiting farmers whose land was destroyed by government-routed pollution. Stunning scenes of lush fields are juxtaposed with damaged housing and polluted water, evoking an additional element of shame on behalf of the dishonest state for the viewer as the documentary progresses.

The slightly disheveled and reserved man continues despite the fact that government trackers follow him on his journeys and bust into his apartment overnight.  While Tiger Temple understands the personal risks of his work, his commitment to serving fellow Chinese and exposing the lies and injustices of the government, ultimately trumps his fear.

Zola’s mission is similarly infused with threats from the Communist Party; he is blacklisted, barred from leaving the country, questioned at his apartment, and tracked on the Internet.  Perhaps it is his age, but despite these obstacles Zola maintains an air of lightness throughout the film that is notably absent in his co-star’s scenes, who seems gravely aware of the beast he is battling.

Zola’s enthusiasm for writing about and filming victims of government injustice—such as a teenage girl who was raped by a government official or residents of Beijing evicted during the Olympics—is surprising when contextualized. His parents, weathered rural farmers, lecture him that “country comes first, then the individual” at the dinner table. They explain to a son whom they are baffled to call their own, that helping the public may lead to personal benefits in the future. Zola promptly excuses himself from the table, hops on his bike and leaves the family farm.

This is because to this young man, countering to the Communist party and exposing its injustices is the ultimate service to his nation. He claims that, “the truth is I don’t really know what journalism is. I just record what I witness”. While Zola is clearly not so naïve, his simplification speaks to the fact that just recording and publicizing the truth is a provocative and significant act in a country where ‘social order’ and ‘cooperation’ are used as justifications to stifle dissent.

Thus Zola and Tiger Temple both, although in distinct ways, take the Communist Party narrative of helping the country by cooperating and flipping it on his head, suggesting that to actually help Chinese citizens, transparency is the answer.

But although the idea is increasingly popular in some circles, especially as internet usage spreads in China, such work makes for a lonely existence. The viewer is introduced to some of Zola and TIger Temple’s fans, either through blog comments or in person at a blogger convention, but such instances are obviously rare. While the older of the pair has accepted this fate, Zola seems to still be grappling with it: at one of the lowest points of the film, he wonders “if anyone else in this world feels as lonely as I do”.

Ultimately though, it is evident that both men are steadfast in their convictions and hopeful for a major shift in the future. An informative, insightful, and aesthetically gorgeous documentary, High Tech, Low Life gives the viewer hope, through introducing two incredible bloggers, that humanity in China is pushing the world’s most populous nation toward change.

(posted for Davabel)

For the four hour challenge, I decided to document the legendary wait at a local restaurant. Since I worked with video professionally, I wanted to give amateur food blogging a try with this challenge. Originally posted here.

Yume Wo Katare at Porter Square opened its doors last October after much chatter and anticipation. Word of legendary waits spread like so many Ippudo outposts. Having endured long lines at the ramen temples of New York City, I’ve witnessed the fanaticism inspired by this superlative form of noodle soup. But here in Cambridge, could a bowl of ramen really be worthy of lines that snake around the block on even the snowiest and coldest of nights?

According to reviews, people endure those lines at Yume not just for the noodles, but for the experience. In the words of one Yelper:

And so I gathered up some hungry troops hearty enough to brave a potentially hour-long wait in a wintry mix. When we arrived at 6:35pm, almost twenty people were already waiting outside.

We studied the rules, helpfully posted on the window in a handy flow chart:

The restaurant sits a strange half-story above street level, placing tables at eye level for those looking on covetously from the outside.

And if all that isn’t enough to build up the anticipation, the front of the line is marked by this sign:

45 minutes later, we were finally in– but alas, the wait continued as we were made to stand against the walls, hovering over the other patrons.

I expected a museum-like aura in a place with such rigid rules, but the experience inside belied my impression. The hostess was kind, and while a few of the twenty or so patrons ate silently, there was a soft din of conversation over the sound of light jazz playing in the background.

The name of the restaurant means “tell your dreams,” a dictum that was painted on the ceiling above the kitchen

..and displayed on the far wall.

Visitors can purchase a spot on the wall for a framed declaration of their dreams at a cost of $10 a month, or $10,000 for 10 years– a long term investment of dubious returns.

In Japan, ramen styles vary greatly according to different regional conventions.
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View The 26 Types of Ramen in Japan in a larger map

Yume serves theirs Jiro-style: in big heaping bowl (“the biggest bowls in Boston,” according to one of their many signs) of pork and soy-based broth, topped simply with thick noodles made in-house, slices of roasted pork belly, bean sprouts, cabbage and minced garlic, sans condiments.

A bowl with two slices of pork rings in at $12, a five-slice bowl at $14. Extra vegetable toppings are free of charge, though one sign requests that patrons order only so much as they can eat, as leftovers cannot be taken to go.

After the ten minute standing wait, we were finally seated. Chef/owner Tsuyoshi Nishioka called out to us one by one with his trademark demand: 

To which we responded with requests for extra veggies or garlic. Our bowls arrived, as full and heaping as had been described in so many reviews.

The first few bites were delightfully porcine and just fatty enough to trigger my Pavolovian responses. The noodles, thick as linguine, were cooked to a toothsome al dente and carried the savory soy flavor of the broth. The real trouble, however, lurked below the toppings: bits of melty pork fat flecked the gravy-like broth.

I suppressed a looming fear for my arteries and managed to finish all the solid components, though not the soup. My companions did no better.

It was a gratifying meal for a cold night, but Nishioka’s fine handiwork wasn’t enough to absorb my full attention. Bite after bite, I remained awkwardly aware of the waiting glances of those standing behind me and outside the window. Next time, I’ll most likely tell my dreams elsewhere.