You know when you're a kid and you dream of that perfect vacation?
I remember as a little person, lying on my bed looking at magazine pictures of people catching waves on perfect white sand beaches, with little bungalows dotting the shoreline, and thinking to myself "how much cooler would I be if I could do something like that?"
I guess I just got a whole lot cooler.
------
Indonesian paradise, a few friends, a couple of beers, a beachside guesthouse and some waves.
It wasn't a traditional Christmas, but it sure was an amazing one.
The day would begin with the sunrise, as the sound of water lapping the shoreline roused me from a night being rocked to sleep in a hammock stretched between two palm trees.
Gradually the team would emerge from their respective abodes, rubbing sleep from their eyes and reaching for a cup of coffee.
Ten minutes later, boards tucked under our arms we would head down the beach to the waves that rolled and crashed in the distance. Allegedly the swell wasn't that great for those of us endowed with natural talent. For a beginner like me the magic of a first surf trip was enough to keep any and all complaints at bay.
A few hours of battling the waves, with a few explotives uttered under my breath as mother nature continually attempted to drown and bash me against the reef was all worth it for the two waves I would catch each morning, as the sun rose over the jungle covered hills that surrounded us.
Returning to our temporary home, the rest of the morning would be spent eating breakfast, sitting in lounge chairs, watching the water, catching rays, and generally enjoying the easiest and most beautiful moments life can offer.
Afternoon surf time: do it all over again.
Come back from the second session of the day, play scrabble, laugh, drink a beer.
Get invited to a local mining party (food and alcohol complementary...we thought we'd all died and gone to heaven...Jack Daniels and giant prawns on the house? Merry Christmas indeed!!)
Stumble home from the party arm and arm with friends, and collapse in a heap on the sand in a fit of laughter.
Lie back under the southern hemisphere stars, mesmerized by the fact that the sky above is completely different from the one at home.
Laugh some more. Make a few memories.
Move from sand to hammock, and let the wind rock you to sleep.
---------
The days we dream of, the nights we will remember forever.
The moments I never thought I'd be lucky enough to live.
Pack up those backpacks kids....
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Remembering
A few years ago a very dear friend of mine passed away. It was an incredibly difficult time for all of us who knew him, especially considering that he was the best of all of us. Talented, beautiful, kind, wonderful in every way.
When you lose someone like that, those who remain forever young, it makes you re-evaluate a lot of things in your life. How much should I be trying to achieve? Am I wasting my life? What can I change in my daily functioning in order to ensure that his death was not in vain?
....
I've been thinking about my friend a lot these past few weeks.
In that space between here and somewhere else, where his soul or memory or whatever you want to call it is drifting about and watching over all of us, what does he think of the choices I have made?
When I'm sitting on the beaches of Bali sipping my umpteenth Bintang and planning what to wear for that night's dancing and debauchery, it's hard not to think he might be disappointed. It's hard not to think that maybe I'm wasting my time; maybe I should be doing something far more productive and meaningful with my days here.
Then, one night, I had a moment.
With a group of friends, we headed to a local bar/club - a classy house away from the beach that opens up on Friday nights for drinks and dancing.
As I sat on plush cushions surrounded by smiling healthy bodies, weaving my body this way and that to try and catch an occasional whisper of fresh air blown by the fans in the corners of the room, I noticed how happy everyone there was.
Every face shining with the knowledge that they were living the good life. That every moment of their day was filled with pleasure and fun and doing the things that they LOVED.
Surfing. Swimming.
Playing. Dancing.
Spending time with old friends, making new ones.
Grabbing the boards and heading out to discover a new surf break.
Catching a wave and knowing the sheer exhilaration that only the power of water and wind can give you.
Joy. Pleasure.
Even if it isn't the most refined, the most analytical or questioning manner of living, maybe that's ok.
Maybe sometimes a full life is the one that is the most enjoyed....end of story.
If that's the case, then the people here are living the fullest life I have ever seen.
So my dearest Laurent, wherever you are, I hope you can look on me and this life I am leading and still be proud. Because this is the life that I love.
This is a life worth living.
Tu me manques, mon ami.
When you lose someone like that, those who remain forever young, it makes you re-evaluate a lot of things in your life. How much should I be trying to achieve? Am I wasting my life? What can I change in my daily functioning in order to ensure that his death was not in vain?
....
I've been thinking about my friend a lot these past few weeks.
In that space between here and somewhere else, where his soul or memory or whatever you want to call it is drifting about and watching over all of us, what does he think of the choices I have made?
When I'm sitting on the beaches of Bali sipping my umpteenth Bintang and planning what to wear for that night's dancing and debauchery, it's hard not to think he might be disappointed. It's hard not to think that maybe I'm wasting my time; maybe I should be doing something far more productive and meaningful with my days here.
Then, one night, I had a moment.
With a group of friends, we headed to a local bar/club - a classy house away from the beach that opens up on Friday nights for drinks and dancing.
As I sat on plush cushions surrounded by smiling healthy bodies, weaving my body this way and that to try and catch an occasional whisper of fresh air blown by the fans in the corners of the room, I noticed how happy everyone there was.
Every face shining with the knowledge that they were living the good life. That every moment of their day was filled with pleasure and fun and doing the things that they LOVED.
Surfing. Swimming.
Playing. Dancing.
Spending time with old friends, making new ones.
Grabbing the boards and heading out to discover a new surf break.
Catching a wave and knowing the sheer exhilaration that only the power of water and wind can give you.
Joy. Pleasure.
Even if it isn't the most refined, the most analytical or questioning manner of living, maybe that's ok.
Maybe sometimes a full life is the one that is the most enjoyed....end of story.
If that's the case, then the people here are living the fullest life I have ever seen.
So my dearest Laurent, wherever you are, I hope you can look on me and this life I am leading and still be proud. Because this is the life that I love.
This is a life worth living.
Tu me manques, mon ami.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Tourist time.
Bali.
Sun. Sand. Scantily clad people. Freedom and lack of responsibilities, a party everywhere you look and a thousand tourists prepared to invite you into their play world.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped off the plane in Jakarta was the smell. That unmistakable scent of the south asian tropics - dripping with humidity, layered with pineapple and mango and a hint of sea spray. Within a few seconds, olfaction was overpowered by touch, as the 30 degree heat created a fine glow over my entire body. Palm trees swayed in the breeze, flowers bloomed, reggae beats pumped in my ears.
Southeast Asia....I'm back, baby.
Vacation time.
It seems strange to consider this a vacation, when some might say that my entire year has been a vacation. And yet, this is a vacation. A break from being a traveller, replaced by something simpler, something a whole heck of a lot easier.
Here the locals don't stare at you as you walk down the street (even if you're just wearing a bikini!!). Here there's McDonalds and Starbucks to appease the nervous westerners who fear local cuisine. Here the streets are clean, the temples are hidden from view, everyone speaks English. Here you get to be:
just.
another.
tourist.
Which is a-ok. Because after the chaos of the last seven months (seven months!!) of being a traveller in central asia, being in the relative calm and anonymity of Indonesia's white sand beaches is like a breath of fresh air. Constantly fighting to understand the local culture, being completely confused and lost at all times, battling pollution and poverty tends to take it's toll on your system. I don't think I had really realized that until I got here.
But let me tell you, it sure sunk in pretty quickly as I lay on the beach in my tattered shorts and bikini top. The warm breeze seemed to be chanting to me "relax. have a massage. buy something pretty for less than 3 dollars. take a break. we are here to make your stay as pleasant and easy as possible. no challenges necessary."
How can you say no to that?
Sorry mama and papa, I might not be seeing too many temples during this round. But I'll bring you back a nice souvenir to forgive my lack of cultural exploration...
Surf's up kids.
Sun. Sand. Scantily clad people. Freedom and lack of responsibilities, a party everywhere you look and a thousand tourists prepared to invite you into their play world.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped off the plane in Jakarta was the smell. That unmistakable scent of the south asian tropics - dripping with humidity, layered with pineapple and mango and a hint of sea spray. Within a few seconds, olfaction was overpowered by touch, as the 30 degree heat created a fine glow over my entire body. Palm trees swayed in the breeze, flowers bloomed, reggae beats pumped in my ears.
Southeast Asia....I'm back, baby.
Vacation time.
It seems strange to consider this a vacation, when some might say that my entire year has been a vacation. And yet, this is a vacation. A break from being a traveller, replaced by something simpler, something a whole heck of a lot easier.
Here the locals don't stare at you as you walk down the street (even if you're just wearing a bikini!!). Here there's McDonalds and Starbucks to appease the nervous westerners who fear local cuisine. Here the streets are clean, the temples are hidden from view, everyone speaks English. Here you get to be:
just.
another.
tourist.
Which is a-ok. Because after the chaos of the last seven months (seven months!!) of being a traveller in central asia, being in the relative calm and anonymity of Indonesia's white sand beaches is like a breath of fresh air. Constantly fighting to understand the local culture, being completely confused and lost at all times, battling pollution and poverty tends to take it's toll on your system. I don't think I had really realized that until I got here.
But let me tell you, it sure sunk in pretty quickly as I lay on the beach in my tattered shorts and bikini top. The warm breeze seemed to be chanting to me "relax. have a massage. buy something pretty for less than 3 dollars. take a break. we are here to make your stay as pleasant and easy as possible. no challenges necessary."
How can you say no to that?
Sorry mama and papa, I might not be seeing too many temples during this round. But I'll bring you back a nice souvenir to forgive my lack of cultural exploration...
Surf's up kids.
Friday, November 20, 2009
T.S. Eliot
Re-entry shock.
It's a well-known post-travel-stress syndrome, one which we all dread as we board the plane back to the world we call home.
As I boarded the plane to Geneva, to friends and comfort and family's arms, apprehension set in.
Was this going to be amazing?
Traumatic?
Empty?
After the chaos of 20 million souls in an oven of dust and poverty, how would Swiss impeccability feel?
One afternoon we went out for lunch. Driving through the countryside, lush green fields shimmering in the crisp autumn air, the yellows and oranges shining against a backdrop of grey and blue, I settled against the leather interior and listened to the music crooning from the speaker at my side.
Comfort.
Enjoying a delicious meal and sipping chilled white wine, I wondered that these pleasures brought me no guilt. Shouldn't this feel more wrong somehow?
At one point a young mother and her 3 month old baby came into the restaurant, the proud new grandmother in tow. Sitting at the table next to ours, dressed in Gucci sweaters, gold and pearls glistening, they quietly ate their foie gras and sipped their wine, riches and oppulence oozing from all sides.
This did not bother me.
It didn´t bother me, because for once that wealth seemed to be about something more. Those riches meant education, and health and above all opportunity.
As I watched the young family heaping love and affection, nutrition and intelligence and time on the small boy in his mothers arms I couldn't feel angry or guilty.
In the face of all the disadvantaged children I've encountered in recent months, here finally was a child with a chance.
More than a chance.
That child, at birth, had all the endless possibilities of the world layed at his feet. After so many months of impossibilities and hopelessness, here, in front of me, sat hope.
Beautiful, clean, diamond-encrusted hope.
In the face of that, all the seemingly empty lives of the ´West melted away. With every opportunity that boy was given, I could forgive all the mindless daily rituals of the comfortable masses.
And when Grandpa Prosperity arrived with his perfectly groomed pooch, complaining about his fifth lost cellphone of the year, it didn't ´need to bother me.
That someone with the means to save a village was crying over proverbial spilt milk didn't make my blood boil or tears flow. Because that wealth was being used for something good right here at home.
Because all that gleaming wealth, empty or not, was giving one child all the chances in the world.
Is that enough?
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time
It's a well-known post-travel-stress syndrome, one which we all dread as we board the plane back to the world we call home.
As I boarded the plane to Geneva, to friends and comfort and family's arms, apprehension set in.
Was this going to be amazing?
Traumatic?
Empty?
After the chaos of 20 million souls in an oven of dust and poverty, how would Swiss impeccability feel?
One afternoon we went out for lunch. Driving through the countryside, lush green fields shimmering in the crisp autumn air, the yellows and oranges shining against a backdrop of grey and blue, I settled against the leather interior and listened to the music crooning from the speaker at my side.
Comfort.
Enjoying a delicious meal and sipping chilled white wine, I wondered that these pleasures brought me no guilt. Shouldn't this feel more wrong somehow?
At one point a young mother and her 3 month old baby came into the restaurant, the proud new grandmother in tow. Sitting at the table next to ours, dressed in Gucci sweaters, gold and pearls glistening, they quietly ate their foie gras and sipped their wine, riches and oppulence oozing from all sides.
This did not bother me.
It didn´t bother me, because for once that wealth seemed to be about something more. Those riches meant education, and health and above all opportunity.
As I watched the young family heaping love and affection, nutrition and intelligence and time on the small boy in his mothers arms I couldn't feel angry or guilty.
In the face of all the disadvantaged children I've encountered in recent months, here finally was a child with a chance.
More than a chance.
That child, at birth, had all the endless possibilities of the world layed at his feet. After so many months of impossibilities and hopelessness, here, in front of me, sat hope.
Beautiful, clean, diamond-encrusted hope.
In the face of that, all the seemingly empty lives of the ´West melted away. With every opportunity that boy was given, I could forgive all the mindless daily rituals of the comfortable masses.
And when Grandpa Prosperity arrived with his perfectly groomed pooch, complaining about his fifth lost cellphone of the year, it didn't ´need to bother me.
That someone with the means to save a village was crying over proverbial spilt milk didn't make my blood boil or tears flow. Because that wealth was being used for something good right here at home.
Because all that gleaming wealth, empty or not, was giving one child all the chances in the world.
Is that enough?
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Final Countdown
One of the benefits of working within an organization is that they sometime propose experiences that you would never have access to alone.
Like the weekly bathing of street children in a center on the outskirts of Kolkata.
It all began with a bus ride through the streets, slums and every changing scenery of this place; past crowds of men performing their morning ablutions in the murky brown water of a public water pump, children squatting naked in the streets as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes with grimy fists, and cows grazing on piles of refuse, until our arrival at the center for the dying and the destitute.
Only every Sunday, that place is transformed from a place of death to one of life.
A hundred street kids dressed in rags stood waiting for us at the entrance gates, dressed in rags, holding hands and smiling.
'Auntie auntie!'
They descended on us with screams and shouts. The ritual of hope had begun.
Myself and five other women (can I call myself a woman at this point?) spent an hour and a half
pouring buckets of almost fresh water over these bundles of joy and tragedy. Scrubbing a week's accumulated grim from their skin and bones, laughing and exchanging a moment of love with these girls, I experienced a mix of euphoria and total devastation.
Cleaning a starving child. But a happy starving child. How is that supposed to make you feel?
Of course, as with so many of the adventures I've had in this city of joy, it was not the planned experience that will remain with me. Instead, a moment in that day will be anchored in my mind forever.
As I scrubbed my fiftieth body of the day, a girl around five years old came up to me, holding the hand of her little sister/daughter/friend. Relationships on the streets are complex. You become an adult by the age of 4, responsible for the fate of those younger than you.
"Auntie, mal." she said, her mouth set in a grim line, as she pointed to her younger charge's foot.
I looked down to see a foot covered in yellow, pussing cuts. Closer inspection revealed scars from similar injuries all over this little one's legs.
I don't know what those scars were from. At that point, it didn't matter.
Taking the scared little girl's hand, I gently removed her clothes and washed her frail body as she stood with her head bowed and eyes shut tightly.
After her shower, I helped her back into the dirty rags she wears each day (for laundry service is unfortunately not included in this program), and at last she looked up into my eyes.
Big brown saucers stared up at me, as this little Indian princess lifted her arms in the universally recognized plea to be held.
I picked her up. She must have wieghed about 10 pounds. I walked with her to the mobile dispensary, where a man was having his thumb sown back on with no ansethetic.
Trying to sheild the little bundle in my arms from a sight that was traumtizing even to me, I quietly sang into her ear
"The sun will come out, tomorrow"....
Her eyes never left the impromptu surgery being performed before us. Eyes that have seen far too much of the world in far too few years. Eyes that take in everything before them, eyes that have witnessed poverty and abuse and blood and tragedy since they were first opened. Eyes that are more open than mine ever could be.
Holding that little girl for ten minutes as we waited for her turn to get her wounds cleaned and wrapped up, I fought back the tears.
But tears don't have a place here. Tears don't make sense in this world - they're simply a manifestation of my own guilt. Tears don't belong in this 10 lb bundle's life. Tears don't help.
What helps is that at noon that Sunday, this little girl whose name I will never know sat down to a hot meal, along with 99 other children from the sidewalks of Kolkata. Clean skin shining in the mid-day sun, a crisp white bandage wrapped around her foot, she scooped handfuls of dal and rice from a tin plate into her mouth.
And an hour later, she joined the troop of hardened street children as they walked out the gates and back to their homes, a banana tucked into their pockets, hand in hand with their sisters and brothers, smiling from ear to ear.
That was my last day in Kolkata. My last chance to explore and experience, to be challenged and hyperstimulated and confused. That was one of my final memories of a world that I have slowly fallen in love with.
And as I head to the airport, to the skies, to the comforts of European cuisine, clean sheets, a bath and family, I don't know how to say goodbye to that world.
So I guess I"ll have to come back....
Like the weekly bathing of street children in a center on the outskirts of Kolkata.
It all began with a bus ride through the streets, slums and every changing scenery of this place; past crowds of men performing their morning ablutions in the murky brown water of a public water pump, children squatting naked in the streets as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes with grimy fists, and cows grazing on piles of refuse, until our arrival at the center for the dying and the destitute.
Only every Sunday, that place is transformed from a place of death to one of life.
A hundred street kids dressed in rags stood waiting for us at the entrance gates, dressed in rags, holding hands and smiling.
'Auntie auntie!'
They descended on us with screams and shouts. The ritual of hope had begun.
Myself and five other women (can I call myself a woman at this point?) spent an hour and a half
pouring buckets of almost fresh water over these bundles of joy and tragedy. Scrubbing a week's accumulated grim from their skin and bones, laughing and exchanging a moment of love with these girls, I experienced a mix of euphoria and total devastation.
Cleaning a starving child. But a happy starving child. How is that supposed to make you feel?
Of course, as with so many of the adventures I've had in this city of joy, it was not the planned experience that will remain with me. Instead, a moment in that day will be anchored in my mind forever.
As I scrubbed my fiftieth body of the day, a girl around five years old came up to me, holding the hand of her little sister/daughter/friend. Relationships on the streets are complex. You become an adult by the age of 4, responsible for the fate of those younger than you.
"Auntie, mal." she said, her mouth set in a grim line, as she pointed to her younger charge's foot.
I looked down to see a foot covered in yellow, pussing cuts. Closer inspection revealed scars from similar injuries all over this little one's legs.
I don't know what those scars were from. At that point, it didn't matter.
Taking the scared little girl's hand, I gently removed her clothes and washed her frail body as she stood with her head bowed and eyes shut tightly.
After her shower, I helped her back into the dirty rags she wears each day (for laundry service is unfortunately not included in this program), and at last she looked up into my eyes.
Big brown saucers stared up at me, as this little Indian princess lifted her arms in the universally recognized plea to be held.
I picked her up. She must have wieghed about 10 pounds. I walked with her to the mobile dispensary, where a man was having his thumb sown back on with no ansethetic.
Trying to sheild the little bundle in my arms from a sight that was traumtizing even to me, I quietly sang into her ear
"The sun will come out, tomorrow"....
Her eyes never left the impromptu surgery being performed before us. Eyes that have seen far too much of the world in far too few years. Eyes that take in everything before them, eyes that have witnessed poverty and abuse and blood and tragedy since they were first opened. Eyes that are more open than mine ever could be.
Holding that little girl for ten minutes as we waited for her turn to get her wounds cleaned and wrapped up, I fought back the tears.
But tears don't have a place here. Tears don't make sense in this world - they're simply a manifestation of my own guilt. Tears don't belong in this 10 lb bundle's life. Tears don't help.
What helps is that at noon that Sunday, this little girl whose name I will never know sat down to a hot meal, along with 99 other children from the sidewalks of Kolkata. Clean skin shining in the mid-day sun, a crisp white bandage wrapped around her foot, she scooped handfuls of dal and rice from a tin plate into her mouth.
And an hour later, she joined the troop of hardened street children as they walked out the gates and back to their homes, a banana tucked into their pockets, hand in hand with their sisters and brothers, smiling from ear to ear.
That was my last day in Kolkata. My last chance to explore and experience, to be challenged and hyperstimulated and confused. That was one of my final memories of a world that I have slowly fallen in love with.
And as I head to the airport, to the skies, to the comforts of European cuisine, clean sheets, a bath and family, I don't know how to say goodbye to that world.
So I guess I"ll have to come back....
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Stories of success
Sometimes the universe really does its thing well.
As you may or may not have been able to tell from recent rants, things in the development sector out here haven't been the easiest the last little while. Although Deepa continues to improve (she's started copying words more consistently, the little trooper), it somehow always seems so futile.
How many kids actually get out of this place? What's the point in teaching a little blind girl how to talk when she's never going to have a chance to go to school or have a job?
Because that's the norm for disabled people here: An institution. The street. Those are the options.
So what's the point?
And then, two days ago, something happened to shift my perspective...
...again
As I was climbing the stairs to work on Tuesday morning, I passed a young couple sitting in the hallway.
"Bonjour" the young girl said with a smile.
Surprised to hear French from the mouth of someone so clearly Indian, I smiled and returned the greeting, continuing on my way up the stairs to the crashes, clangs and screams of forty little bundles of joy.
A few moments later, as I sat saying hello to the kids, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the same girl.
"Excuse me, do you speak French?" she asked shyly.
Sometimes being bilingual realllllly comes in handy. The girl quickly explained to me that she was afraid something had been lost in translation.
"I think they think I want to adopt a child. But that's not it at all. I was adopted from this place when I was 8 years old. This is my first time back in India. I just arrived and I'm hoping the people here can help me find the village of my birth. I don't know anything about my childhood. Can you tell them that?"
Please remember that this is all happening at 8 in the morning on a Tuesday. That's a serious start to the week.
Turns out this beautiful young woman had literally JUST landed in India. She and her fiancee had flown from Switzerland, where she grew up, and landed in Kolkata an hour before I met them.
I suddenly found myself following this young couple through the orphanage, and bearing witness to an incredibly emotional experience.
"I remember the bars on the cribs were painted green, not yellow." quietly, as we walked through the dormitory lined with dozens of beds.
"Did there used to be a park here? I remember my friend and I used to play on the swings together. We loved the park." tentatively, as we sat in the courtyard and listened to sounds of children playing beside us.
As memories came flooding back, I tentatively translated the girls words from French to English, and the sister's responses from English to French.
Slowly, as we toured the rooms of her childhood, her story came out.
It wasn't a nice one.
As a child, a train accident stole her sister's life and one of her own legs, leaving her an invalid in rural India. Not a good start.
Later, her mother committed suicide.
This left the little girl to survive in a small village with no one for company but her abusive, alcoholic father. Alone and afraid she fled.
"I remember taking the train for a really long time. And I remember a train station. And a sister.
The sister took care of me. She brought me here to Kolkata. Later, I remember a plane ride. I met my adoptive mother for the first time when I landed in Switzerland. I was 8 1/2 years old".
Snippets of memories, with no names, no dates, no faces to attach to any of them. Imagine, an entire childhood unknown. Growing up in a world just like yours and mine, where birthdays and hometowns and childhood friends and family picnics are so important. Imagine living in that when you don't know your real date of birth. You don't know where you born. Everything before the age of 9 is a haze, and there's nobody who can make the image any clearer.
Sadly, the girl's file, thin and faded with time, brought us no answers. The only name in the file was the girl's own. The only date of birth was the one she had always used, one which had been chosen for her when she was rescued from the streets. The village listed as her birthplace was the village where she was found not born.
Saddened by her inability to shed light on the past, the Sister turned to me.
"please tell her I'm so sorry we cannot help more"
the translation was met with a smile.
"There's nothing to apologize for. Without these people, I never would have had the life I did. I owe them everything" the girl said, her voice quavering ever so slightly.
No past. But a future. Some would say that's a fair trade.
I don't know why that girl said hello to me in the stairwell. I don't know why I responded. But I do know that I needed this experience.
I needed to be reminded that good things do happen here. That there are success stories and fresh starts amidst the dirt and the noise and the chaos.
That amidst all the impossibilities of Kolkata, some things are still possible.
As you may or may not have been able to tell from recent rants, things in the development sector out here haven't been the easiest the last little while. Although Deepa continues to improve (she's started copying words more consistently, the little trooper), it somehow always seems so futile.
How many kids actually get out of this place? What's the point in teaching a little blind girl how to talk when she's never going to have a chance to go to school or have a job?
Because that's the norm for disabled people here: An institution. The street. Those are the options.
So what's the point?
And then, two days ago, something happened to shift my perspective...
...again
As I was climbing the stairs to work on Tuesday morning, I passed a young couple sitting in the hallway.
"Bonjour" the young girl said with a smile.
Surprised to hear French from the mouth of someone so clearly Indian, I smiled and returned the greeting, continuing on my way up the stairs to the crashes, clangs and screams of forty little bundles of joy.
A few moments later, as I sat saying hello to the kids, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the same girl.
"Excuse me, do you speak French?" she asked shyly.
Sometimes being bilingual realllllly comes in handy. The girl quickly explained to me that she was afraid something had been lost in translation.
"I think they think I want to adopt a child. But that's not it at all. I was adopted from this place when I was 8 years old. This is my first time back in India. I just arrived and I'm hoping the people here can help me find the village of my birth. I don't know anything about my childhood. Can you tell them that?"
Please remember that this is all happening at 8 in the morning on a Tuesday. That's a serious start to the week.
Turns out this beautiful young woman had literally JUST landed in India. She and her fiancee had flown from Switzerland, where she grew up, and landed in Kolkata an hour before I met them.
I suddenly found myself following this young couple through the orphanage, and bearing witness to an incredibly emotional experience.
"I remember the bars on the cribs were painted green, not yellow." quietly, as we walked through the dormitory lined with dozens of beds.
"Did there used to be a park here? I remember my friend and I used to play on the swings together. We loved the park." tentatively, as we sat in the courtyard and listened to sounds of children playing beside us.
As memories came flooding back, I tentatively translated the girls words from French to English, and the sister's responses from English to French.
Slowly, as we toured the rooms of her childhood, her story came out.
It wasn't a nice one.
As a child, a train accident stole her sister's life and one of her own legs, leaving her an invalid in rural India. Not a good start.
Later, her mother committed suicide.
This left the little girl to survive in a small village with no one for company but her abusive, alcoholic father. Alone and afraid she fled.
"I remember taking the train for a really long time. And I remember a train station. And a sister.
The sister took care of me. She brought me here to Kolkata. Later, I remember a plane ride. I met my adoptive mother for the first time when I landed in Switzerland. I was 8 1/2 years old".
Snippets of memories, with no names, no dates, no faces to attach to any of them. Imagine, an entire childhood unknown. Growing up in a world just like yours and mine, where birthdays and hometowns and childhood friends and family picnics are so important. Imagine living in that when you don't know your real date of birth. You don't know where you born. Everything before the age of 9 is a haze, and there's nobody who can make the image any clearer.
Sadly, the girl's file, thin and faded with time, brought us no answers. The only name in the file was the girl's own. The only date of birth was the one she had always used, one which had been chosen for her when she was rescued from the streets. The village listed as her birthplace was the village where she was found not born.
Saddened by her inability to shed light on the past, the Sister turned to me.
"please tell her I'm so sorry we cannot help more"
the translation was met with a smile.
"There's nothing to apologize for. Without these people, I never would have had the life I did. I owe them everything" the girl said, her voice quavering ever so slightly.
No past. But a future. Some would say that's a fair trade.
I don't know why that girl said hello to me in the stairwell. I don't know why I responded. But I do know that I needed this experience.
I needed to be reminded that good things do happen here. That there are success stories and fresh starts amidst the dirt and the noise and the chaos.
That amidst all the impossibilities of Kolkata, some things are still possible.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Rural India
A few days ago I found myself sitting on a local commuter train, chugging our way down the tracks at 7 a.m. on the way to one of the many villages surrounding the 20 million strong city of Kolkata.
Shoulder to shoulder, chocolate and brown skins glistening as the heat rose and sweat beaded our brows, bags and babies tossed onto laps at random, we made the slow journey from the madness of urban India to the calm openness of the village life.
A stop for a much needed chai at a shop outside the train station ended with half the village in attendance, as everyone ogled the gora with the sun-bleached blond hair. An hour long jeep ride down bumpy roads as the buildings changed from brick to mud and bicycles and rickshaws replaced buses and cars ended with me bruised and exhausted. Slowly we dragged our weary bodies out of the car and trudged down the street to our destination: Ridigai, West Bengal, India.
I had been informed that we would spend a few hours participating in an "English conversation class" for primary school teachers.
Whatever that means.
-------
Up until now, the biggest lesson I've learned as a 'freelance development worker' (for lack of a more concrete and appropriate term) is to never, ever have expectations. It's not gonna turn out the way you thought it would, so don't bother. Just go with it.
This was one of those 'go with it' situations.
We arrived in a...school?...farmhouse?...home?.....let's just call it a building. In this building, we had our fourth chai of the day. Post-tea, we were told that the teachers were waiting to talk to us. We entered the room.
A large rectangular room greeted us, its walls painted green and white, the paint faded and peeling in spots. The bare concrete floor was invisible beneath the bodies of 70 teachers sitting cross legged and facing the front. Not a stick of furniture filled the room, with the exception of two wooden chairs placed at the front.
"Oh god, please tell me they don't want us to sit on 'thrones' in front of everyone" I thought.
Yup. They sure did.
So there I perched, younger than everyone in the room by about 10 years, little white girl in her AliBaba pants and scarf, cross-legged and totally lost and hoping things would get a bit less weird pretttttty fast.
First question: "yes hello ma'am (ma'am?!?!...you're 45! call me kid, please!!). What is your name?" Camille "Ah yes. Your country?" Canada.
Second question: "yes hello ma'am. Your country?" "your name"
Third question: "Hello thank you. Where are you from?"
Fourth question" yes hello thank you ma'am..."
You get the idea.
We got fed up pretty fast, so decided to stir things up and start asking THEM questions.
Within half an hour I knew that most of the men in the room thought that the education system's problems were unsolvable and that parents needed to care more about their children's education. I knew that most had M.As, and nearly all were married.
I didn't know a single thing about the 15 women sitting in front of me.
Gently probing, I managed to discover that they were all married, all had children, and most had had their first child between 19 and 22 years of age.
And they, like the men, all had at minimum a bachelors degree. Most had M.As.
These strong, proud women, these educated women from the forgotten lands of India (for the government truly has forgotten these people - the island they live on has never even been properly mapped), these women who are struggling to forge an independence in the villages, were the same women who got married off as teenagers and spent their lives perpetually pregnant. They were the same women who sat before me petrified to speak in front of the men. They sat there trapped by the culture and traditions of this country which privilege men, babies and food before a woman's freedom.
Incidentally a lot of them spoke better English than the men. But fear and tradition can silence even the strongest of voices.
------
....this experience was all well and enlightening for the little girl sitting like a princess at the front of the room.
But the kicker was yet to come.
As we got up to leave, a gangly, bespectacled young gentleman held up his hand.
"Please one more question for you ma'am."
Here we go again "I'm from Canada, my name is Camille...." I thought.
"Please, can you tell us a bit about family planning in Canada?"
uhhhhh........come again?!?!
you want me, the youngest person in the room, the only single person in the room, to tell you about contraception. You, a group of married adults, most of whom are parents.
You...want ME....to explain....family planning.
So I did.
I talked about how as a young woman in Canada, my parents explained to me that when you are in love with someone, you have a choice to express that love physically. You also have a choice to have children or not. If you chose not to, there are options to pick from.
I explained condoms (awkward).
I explained birth control (a little less embarrassing, obviously).
"Ah yes, for women we have the same thing, only it is more like for the men..." one eager pupil spoke up. He then went on to describe a female condom.
Right.
In sum, what can we conclude from this little adventure in rural India? Surrounded by beautiful lush paddy fields, the sun strong on my face, the dust of a five hour journey still clinging to my skin, breathing fresh air for the first time in weeks, my conclusion was this:
These are the educated ones. These are the ones that pass on knowledge to the next generation, these are the people who want to learn and grow and progress.
And their women sit stifled.
And none of them know about the pill.
That's my conclusion.
...is that even a conclusion?
Shoulder to shoulder, chocolate and brown skins glistening as the heat rose and sweat beaded our brows, bags and babies tossed onto laps at random, we made the slow journey from the madness of urban India to the calm openness of the village life.
A stop for a much needed chai at a shop outside the train station ended with half the village in attendance, as everyone ogled the gora with the sun-bleached blond hair. An hour long jeep ride down bumpy roads as the buildings changed from brick to mud and bicycles and rickshaws replaced buses and cars ended with me bruised and exhausted. Slowly we dragged our weary bodies out of the car and trudged down the street to our destination: Ridigai, West Bengal, India.
I had been informed that we would spend a few hours participating in an "English conversation class" for primary school teachers.
Whatever that means.
-------
Up until now, the biggest lesson I've learned as a 'freelance development worker' (for lack of a more concrete and appropriate term) is to never, ever have expectations. It's not gonna turn out the way you thought it would, so don't bother. Just go with it.
This was one of those 'go with it' situations.
We arrived in a...school?...farmhouse?...home?.....let's just call it a building. In this building, we had our fourth chai of the day. Post-tea, we were told that the teachers were waiting to talk to us. We entered the room.
A large rectangular room greeted us, its walls painted green and white, the paint faded and peeling in spots. The bare concrete floor was invisible beneath the bodies of 70 teachers sitting cross legged and facing the front. Not a stick of furniture filled the room, with the exception of two wooden chairs placed at the front.
"Oh god, please tell me they don't want us to sit on 'thrones' in front of everyone" I thought.
Yup. They sure did.
So there I perched, younger than everyone in the room by about 10 years, little white girl in her AliBaba pants and scarf, cross-legged and totally lost and hoping things would get a bit less weird pretttttty fast.
First question: "yes hello ma'am (ma'am?!?!...you're 45! call me kid, please!!). What is your name?" Camille "Ah yes. Your country?" Canada.
Second question: "yes hello ma'am. Your country?" "your name"
Third question: "Hello thank you. Where are you from?"
Fourth question" yes hello thank you ma'am..."
You get the idea.
We got fed up pretty fast, so decided to stir things up and start asking THEM questions.
Within half an hour I knew that most of the men in the room thought that the education system's problems were unsolvable and that parents needed to care more about their children's education. I knew that most had M.As, and nearly all were married.
I didn't know a single thing about the 15 women sitting in front of me.
Gently probing, I managed to discover that they were all married, all had children, and most had had their first child between 19 and 22 years of age.
And they, like the men, all had at minimum a bachelors degree. Most had M.As.
These strong, proud women, these educated women from the forgotten lands of India (for the government truly has forgotten these people - the island they live on has never even been properly mapped), these women who are struggling to forge an independence in the villages, were the same women who got married off as teenagers and spent their lives perpetually pregnant. They were the same women who sat before me petrified to speak in front of the men. They sat there trapped by the culture and traditions of this country which privilege men, babies and food before a woman's freedom.
Incidentally a lot of them spoke better English than the men. But fear and tradition can silence even the strongest of voices.
------
....this experience was all well and enlightening for the little girl sitting like a princess at the front of the room.
But the kicker was yet to come.
As we got up to leave, a gangly, bespectacled young gentleman held up his hand.
"Please one more question for you ma'am."
Here we go again "I'm from Canada, my name is Camille...." I thought.
"Please, can you tell us a bit about family planning in Canada?"
uhhhhh........come again?!?!
you want me, the youngest person in the room, the only single person in the room, to tell you about contraception. You, a group of married adults, most of whom are parents.
You...want ME....to explain....family planning.
So I did.
I talked about how as a young woman in Canada, my parents explained to me that when you are in love with someone, you have a choice to express that love physically. You also have a choice to have children or not. If you chose not to, there are options to pick from.
I explained condoms (awkward).
I explained birth control (a little less embarrassing, obviously).
"Ah yes, for women we have the same thing, only it is more like for the men..." one eager pupil spoke up. He then went on to describe a female condom.
Right.
In sum, what can we conclude from this little adventure in rural India? Surrounded by beautiful lush paddy fields, the sun strong on my face, the dust of a five hour journey still clinging to my skin, breathing fresh air for the first time in weeks, my conclusion was this:
These are the educated ones. These are the ones that pass on knowledge to the next generation, these are the people who want to learn and grow and progress.
And their women sit stifled.
And none of them know about the pill.
That's my conclusion.
...is that even a conclusion?
Saturday, October 24, 2009
up and down, round and round
Yesterday I took a friend to the orphanage with me.
She wanted to see what the handicapped children's floor was like, to understand the world that I talk about daily and incessantly.
She left in tears.
Traumatized by what she had witnessed, the way the children are treated, the noise and the heat, the screaming and the crying, wet diapers and force feeds, she turned to me and asked one simple question.
"Why?"
Why are things here the way they are? Why can't it be different?
And now, after a few weeks here, I'm starting to ask another one. Why do I feel a need to change it.
A colleague recently wrote me an email about change. She said
People don’t need to be “changed”
they just may hear another opinion
and it is up to them what they will do with it....
people hear and learn what they need to hear and learn
at that moment in their lives
Which I understand, but leaves me feeling like here, in this place, what I am doing is completely futile. Because it really doesn't seem like people want to hear and learn much.
When the feeding workshop ended, it felt like we were making progress. Like people were listening and prepared to integrate new thoughts and ideas into their work here.
But after Alexandra left the orphanage in tears, I wondered to myself if in fact it wasn't the people here who were changing, but me.
Have I just gotten so used to the way these children are treated that it seems to me like things are getting better? Maybe nothing is improving, it's just me that's becoming...blase? desensitized? blind?
Why do I feel the need to change something that I understand so little that I can't even maintain a concrete perspective (opinion?) for a week?!?
Why am I here?
She wanted to see what the handicapped children's floor was like, to understand the world that I talk about daily and incessantly.
She left in tears.
Traumatized by what she had witnessed, the way the children are treated, the noise and the heat, the screaming and the crying, wet diapers and force feeds, she turned to me and asked one simple question.
"Why?"
Why are things here the way they are? Why can't it be different?
And now, after a few weeks here, I'm starting to ask another one. Why do I feel a need to change it.
A colleague recently wrote me an email about change. She said
People don’t need to be “changed”
they just may hear another opinion
and it is up to them what they will do with it....
people hear and learn what they need to hear and learn
at that moment in their lives
Which I understand, but leaves me feeling like here, in this place, what I am doing is completely futile. Because it really doesn't seem like people want to hear and learn much.
When the feeding workshop ended, it felt like we were making progress. Like people were listening and prepared to integrate new thoughts and ideas into their work here.
But after Alexandra left the orphanage in tears, I wondered to myself if in fact it wasn't the people here who were changing, but me.
Have I just gotten so used to the way these children are treated that it seems to me like things are getting better? Maybe nothing is improving, it's just me that's becoming...blase? desensitized? blind?
Why do I feel the need to change something that I understand so little that I can't even maintain a concrete perspective (opinion?) for a week?!?
Why am I here?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Eating my words
I have to thank a lot of people for getting me to the point in my life where I am today.
You meet a thousand people on the road, every day brings new encounters by the truckload, and sometimes you forget how important those encounters are. How much they change you.
Nine months ago, I met a girl when I was rock climbing in Thailand. A woman who I shared a moment with - literally a moment - before scrambling up a rock face and losing myself to the majesty of the climb.
That chance encounter led me to Kolkata and into the life of Deepa, a blind girl living in chaos.
That chance encounter led me to the beginning of the most frustrating experience of my life, as I joined the fight for Deepa's right to therapy, her right to add her words to our world.
Every evening I would return to my guesthouse exhausted and emotional. There, I would vent endlessly to yet another inspiring woman in my life about the dead-ends and disappointments of the last 12 hours. This wonderful person would listen calmly, offering advice when needed and silence when necessary. My work with Deepa was being resisted at every turn, my presence at the Orphanage greeted with hostility each morning. Without the constant support of my friend, I would have abandoned all hope.
In fact, I almost did abandon hope. I almost quit.
Until one day, a relative 'breakthrough'. An invitation (or should I say an acceptance of my proposal) to provide a workshop on safe feeding techniques for children with disabilities. Aka, an opportunity to explain that force feeding a handicapped child Is. Not. Acceptable.
Change.
When they said yes, I thought maybe this was it. This was the opportunity we had been waiting for to get everyone on the same side. They were accepting me, showing an interest in learning from me.
One would have thought it would be smooth sailing from then on in.
Guess again.
The sister in charge of this particular floor of this particular institution was certainly not what you would call 'forthcoming' with information. When I asked about the educational background of the women I was training, or when I tried to determine what the expectations of this workshop would be, the responses were always
"Don't worry."
" You don't need to know. "
"I will take care of these things. "
"Stop asking questions, you need to learn patience."
..... I need to learn patience?!?!?!
Imagine my anger and overwhelming desire to hit something when I returned to my friend's guesthouse balcony after THAT particular conversation.
And then, gradually, as my companion's kind silence soothed away the rough edges of my rage, we started to discuss the best way to go about making this workshop a productive one.
"You have to make these women feel important" she said.
"Value them first, let them know that their role is a necessary one in the orphanage. No one gives these women the time of day, so of course they don't want to listen to you."
She was right, of course. I later discovered that the Indian women working here have little-to-no education. They come from small villages around Kolkata, most are illiterate, and they earn less than 50 dollars a month. Nobody sees them as important, nobody gives them any credit.
Of course my friend was right. But I wouldn't have thought to take the empowerment angle on my own. Knowing how little time we had together, frustrated by the lack of support from those in positions of authority, I was prepared to slam down a bunch of information and walk out. And I would have said it was their fault if nothing changed, because these Indian women 'weren't ready to learn". Because they 'don't want to change'. Because I was so caught up in my own prior experiences that I wasn't willing to change either.
Instead, thanks to the wisdom of my amazing friend, I took a different route. Hours were spent fostering relationships and valuing the caregivers. Instead of giving information, I asked questions. Instead of talking I listened. And slowly, over the course of a few days, they started to listen too.
Not just listen, but learn.
Yesterday, I watched three women speak in gentle soothing voices, feed children with small spoonfuls, wait till each mouthful was finished before offering another one. Yesterday I watched people change.
And I heard a change too.
Deepa said her first word.
"Up up up" as we climbed the stairs together.
Filled with joy and excitement, I went to tell the woman in charge about this amazing milestone in Deepa's life.
And here, again, a change.
Instead of chastising me for going against her wishes and working with Deepa behind her back, instead of getting angry with me as she had on so many other occasions, she smiled.
"There is another girl here who is also blind. Maybe you can work with her too."
--------
....together we make changes happen. Those who advise us, those who cajole us, those who confront us are all essential to keeping things growing and moving forward.
So this is my shout out to the people who have made this journey possible. Who have helped to get me, and Deepa, and all the women at the orphanage, and so many others, to get to this point where we are today. The battle has only just begun, but it never would have even started without all of you.
Thanks team.
You meet a thousand people on the road, every day brings new encounters by the truckload, and sometimes you forget how important those encounters are. How much they change you.
Nine months ago, I met a girl when I was rock climbing in Thailand. A woman who I shared a moment with - literally a moment - before scrambling up a rock face and losing myself to the majesty of the climb.
That chance encounter led me to Kolkata and into the life of Deepa, a blind girl living in chaos.
That chance encounter led me to the beginning of the most frustrating experience of my life, as I joined the fight for Deepa's right to therapy, her right to add her words to our world.
Every evening I would return to my guesthouse exhausted and emotional. There, I would vent endlessly to yet another inspiring woman in my life about the dead-ends and disappointments of the last 12 hours. This wonderful person would listen calmly, offering advice when needed and silence when necessary. My work with Deepa was being resisted at every turn, my presence at the Orphanage greeted with hostility each morning. Without the constant support of my friend, I would have abandoned all hope.
In fact, I almost did abandon hope. I almost quit.
Until one day, a relative 'breakthrough'. An invitation (or should I say an acceptance of my proposal) to provide a workshop on safe feeding techniques for children with disabilities. Aka, an opportunity to explain that force feeding a handicapped child Is. Not. Acceptable.
Change.
When they said yes, I thought maybe this was it. This was the opportunity we had been waiting for to get everyone on the same side. They were accepting me, showing an interest in learning from me.
One would have thought it would be smooth sailing from then on in.
Guess again.
The sister in charge of this particular floor of this particular institution was certainly not what you would call 'forthcoming' with information. When I asked about the educational background of the women I was training, or when I tried to determine what the expectations of this workshop would be, the responses were always
"Don't worry."
" You don't need to know. "
"I will take care of these things. "
"Stop asking questions, you need to learn patience."
..... I need to learn patience?!?!?!
Imagine my anger and overwhelming desire to hit something when I returned to my friend's guesthouse balcony after THAT particular conversation.
And then, gradually, as my companion's kind silence soothed away the rough edges of my rage, we started to discuss the best way to go about making this workshop a productive one.
"You have to make these women feel important" she said.
"Value them first, let them know that their role is a necessary one in the orphanage. No one gives these women the time of day, so of course they don't want to listen to you."
She was right, of course. I later discovered that the Indian women working here have little-to-no education. They come from small villages around Kolkata, most are illiterate, and they earn less than 50 dollars a month. Nobody sees them as important, nobody gives them any credit.
Of course my friend was right. But I wouldn't have thought to take the empowerment angle on my own. Knowing how little time we had together, frustrated by the lack of support from those in positions of authority, I was prepared to slam down a bunch of information and walk out. And I would have said it was their fault if nothing changed, because these Indian women 'weren't ready to learn". Because they 'don't want to change'. Because I was so caught up in my own prior experiences that I wasn't willing to change either.
Instead, thanks to the wisdom of my amazing friend, I took a different route. Hours were spent fostering relationships and valuing the caregivers. Instead of giving information, I asked questions. Instead of talking I listened. And slowly, over the course of a few days, they started to listen too.
Not just listen, but learn.
Yesterday, I watched three women speak in gentle soothing voices, feed children with small spoonfuls, wait till each mouthful was finished before offering another one. Yesterday I watched people change.
And I heard a change too.
Deepa said her first word.
"Up up up" as we climbed the stairs together.
Filled with joy and excitement, I went to tell the woman in charge about this amazing milestone in Deepa's life.
And here, again, a change.
Instead of chastising me for going against her wishes and working with Deepa behind her back, instead of getting angry with me as she had on so many other occasions, she smiled.
"There is another girl here who is also blind. Maybe you can work with her too."
--------
....together we make changes happen. Those who advise us, those who cajole us, those who confront us are all essential to keeping things growing and moving forward.
So this is my shout out to the people who have made this journey possible. Who have helped to get me, and Deepa, and all the women at the orphanage, and so many others, to get to this point where we are today. The battle has only just begun, but it never would have even started without all of you.
Thanks team.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
...paved with good intentions
A few weeks ago, I met an Israeli couple in a train station. After a few moments of conversation, the guy turned to me and said "You know, I don't think anything in India will shock you."
In some ways, he was right.
After a certain amount of time on the road, I realize I can get used to almost anything.
I can get used to squat toilets and sharing a shower with fifteen people and seventy five cockroaches. I can get used to 50 hour train rides, overnight sleeps in bus stations and on park benches, surviving on dry biscuits and shot glasses of tea for days on end. I can get used to bed bugs and 30 degree heat in cities thick with pollution. I can get used to being stared at all the time, to constantly being treated like I'm either an ATM or a 'free woman' just because of the colour of my skin. I can get used to abject poverty: to people sleeping in the streets and squatting to relieve themselves in the middle of the road, to children running naked through the cities and sharing living spaces with cows and chickens and goats.
I can get used to all of these things, because I sought them out and they are part of what makes travelling an adventure.
And it's true that these things no longer surprise or shock me.
But there are some things that I will NEVER get used to.
Like the defeatist attitude that seems to pervade this part of the world.
I came to Kolkata with the intention to do some development work, much like what I had been doing in Nepal. I came with the naive belief that people would see the benefit of gaining new knowledge and skills, that people would have a desire to improve themselves and the lives of those around them.
However, I have realized that many of the people here, not just those that live on the streets (who you can forgive for being closed-minded, as they never had the opportunity to know anything else) but also the people running charities here, have no long term vision.
It seems as though running a 'charity' (I use the term very loosely) should be enough. Maybe we aren't really improving the quality of life for these children, maybe we are force feeding them and physically and verbally abusing them, but heck, today they've got a bed and food and that's better than what they get on the streets so who are YOU, with your western views and biases, to come in and tell me what I'm doing is wrong.
Who are YOU to suggest ways in which our system might be improved. We are giving these children love, and that should be enough. We 'want to help' (at least that's what we say we want), we are doing something 'good' and that frees us from any responsibility to answer to criticism or attempt to improve our system.
A suggestion like taking ten extra minutes to feed a child so they don't choke or develop pneumonia is scoffed at. The concept of working with a single child to teach them a few words instead of spending a month flitting from child to child playing and carrying them around with no distinct purpose is scorned.
...and I quote: "You could be a doctor or a teacher or a therapist. I don't care. You are here to love all the children, all the same. That is all that you are here for. And I don't want to talk about it any more".
Never mind that this 'love' won't get a handicapped child very far in life. Never mind that a specific skill set is being offered to improve a child's long-term outcomes. Never mind what could be in the future. What matters here is that at this exact moment the child is receiving love and shelter. Why would anyone ever need to think beyond that?
These are not uneducated people saying this. These are not people who have never travelled, never lived in western culture, never had the opportunity to see what can be in this world.
And the fact that these 'educated', 'cultured', 'responsible' people cannot see beyond their own noses, the fact that there is no long term vision and no open-mindedness in their system of functioning...these are things that continue shock and appall me every day.
These are things I will NEVER get used to.
And you might say that this is not my culture, that I shouldn't judge a system that I don't understand, that maybe these children ARE better off in this cramped, overheated room than on the streets.
And since I'm better at quoting others than coming up with my own answers, I'd offer you this response:
"One of the benefits of education is that it teaches us to think for ourselves....If, as sometimes happens, our education leads us to question some of the value systems by which we live, that is not to say that we are destroying tradition. The tradition that refuses to entertain doubt, or remains impervious to new thoughts and ideas, becomes a prison rather than a sustaining life force.
Even the smallest one of us has a social function, but that function is not to follow blindly beliefs that may not be valid" - Marju Kapur
And one more...
"We must be the change we wish to see in the world." - Mahatma Ghandi
Sorry for the rant folks.
But it can't all be sunshine and flowers all the time, can it?
In some ways, he was right.
After a certain amount of time on the road, I realize I can get used to almost anything.
I can get used to squat toilets and sharing a shower with fifteen people and seventy five cockroaches. I can get used to 50 hour train rides, overnight sleeps in bus stations and on park benches, surviving on dry biscuits and shot glasses of tea for days on end. I can get used to bed bugs and 30 degree heat in cities thick with pollution. I can get used to being stared at all the time, to constantly being treated like I'm either an ATM or a 'free woman' just because of the colour of my skin. I can get used to abject poverty: to people sleeping in the streets and squatting to relieve themselves in the middle of the road, to children running naked through the cities and sharing living spaces with cows and chickens and goats.
I can get used to all of these things, because I sought them out and they are part of what makes travelling an adventure.
And it's true that these things no longer surprise or shock me.
But there are some things that I will NEVER get used to.
Like the defeatist attitude that seems to pervade this part of the world.
I came to Kolkata with the intention to do some development work, much like what I had been doing in Nepal. I came with the naive belief that people would see the benefit of gaining new knowledge and skills, that people would have a desire to improve themselves and the lives of those around them.
However, I have realized that many of the people here, not just those that live on the streets (who you can forgive for being closed-minded, as they never had the opportunity to know anything else) but also the people running charities here, have no long term vision.
It seems as though running a 'charity' (I use the term very loosely) should be enough. Maybe we aren't really improving the quality of life for these children, maybe we are force feeding them and physically and verbally abusing them, but heck, today they've got a bed and food and that's better than what they get on the streets so who are YOU, with your western views and biases, to come in and tell me what I'm doing is wrong.
Who are YOU to suggest ways in which our system might be improved. We are giving these children love, and that should be enough. We 'want to help' (at least that's what we say we want), we are doing something 'good' and that frees us from any responsibility to answer to criticism or attempt to improve our system.
A suggestion like taking ten extra minutes to feed a child so they don't choke or develop pneumonia is scoffed at. The concept of working with a single child to teach them a few words instead of spending a month flitting from child to child playing and carrying them around with no distinct purpose is scorned.
...and I quote: "You could be a doctor or a teacher or a therapist. I don't care. You are here to love all the children, all the same. That is all that you are here for. And I don't want to talk about it any more".
Never mind that this 'love' won't get a handicapped child very far in life. Never mind that a specific skill set is being offered to improve a child's long-term outcomes. Never mind what could be in the future. What matters here is that at this exact moment the child is receiving love and shelter. Why would anyone ever need to think beyond that?
These are not uneducated people saying this. These are not people who have never travelled, never lived in western culture, never had the opportunity to see what can be in this world.
And the fact that these 'educated', 'cultured', 'responsible' people cannot see beyond their own noses, the fact that there is no long term vision and no open-mindedness in their system of functioning...these are things that continue shock and appall me every day.
These are things I will NEVER get used to.
And you might say that this is not my culture, that I shouldn't judge a system that I don't understand, that maybe these children ARE better off in this cramped, overheated room than on the streets.
And since I'm better at quoting others than coming up with my own answers, I'd offer you this response:
"One of the benefits of education is that it teaches us to think for ourselves....If, as sometimes happens, our education leads us to question some of the value systems by which we live, that is not to say that we are destroying tradition. The tradition that refuses to entertain doubt, or remains impervious to new thoughts and ideas, becomes a prison rather than a sustaining life force.
Even the smallest one of us has a social function, but that function is not to follow blindly beliefs that may not be valid" - Marju Kapur
And one more...
"We must be the change we wish to see in the world." - Mahatma Ghandi
Sorry for the rant folks.
But it can't all be sunshine and flowers all the time, can it?
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
goggles off.
Here's what I've decided:
The things that make India beautiful are not the locations. You can visit a temple or palace, spend days in an ashram meditating or climb the boulders in Hampi to view the sunset. These things are beautiful, yes, but they are not the reasons why this country is breathtaking.
India's beauty is in the briefest of moments. In these quick snippets of time, when the dust and the dirt and the garbage, the horns honking and touts screaming, the smells of urine and sewage all fade away, and Incredible India appears.
Minutes before sitting down to this computer screen, I stood outside waiting to cross the street. To my right, a brown cow grazed on discarded coconut shells in front of a yellow and black rickshaw, the owner in tattered rags sleeping on the back seat as he awaited potential customers. In front of me rickshaws and motorbikes competed with rainbow-clad women and barefoot children for space on the dirt path they called a road.
A waft of sandalwood incense, a smell native to this colonial town, drifted over me, followed immediately after by the sticky sweet scent of mid-afternoon heat in Mysore.
A hundred pairs of big black eyes peered at me from the faces of India: cinnamon browns, chocolate, licorice black and golden yellows glowing in the sun.
Beauty amidst chaos. It makes you smile.
And then, just as quickly as the magic appeared, it was gone again.
"Your country? Yes hello, bananas? You from? What your name? Miss, one school pen? Yes yes try one watch please. Yes hello one rickshaw for you." Calls and stares and aggression infiltrated once more.
The trick in India, it seems like, is to notice those minutes of magic, and hold on to them for dear life. Because this country is exhausting, it's everything that Canada is not (in all the best and the worst of ways), it wears you down and you can't help but think "Why, oh why, did I ever feel the need to come here?"
...so even though sometimes all you want to do is close your eyes and run away from it all, you have to keep those suckers wiiiiide open at all times.
cause otherwise you might miss those seconds of beauty.
otherwise you might miss India.
The things that make India beautiful are not the locations. You can visit a temple or palace, spend days in an ashram meditating or climb the boulders in Hampi to view the sunset. These things are beautiful, yes, but they are not the reasons why this country is breathtaking.
India's beauty is in the briefest of moments. In these quick snippets of time, when the dust and the dirt and the garbage, the horns honking and touts screaming, the smells of urine and sewage all fade away, and Incredible India appears.
Minutes before sitting down to this computer screen, I stood outside waiting to cross the street. To my right, a brown cow grazed on discarded coconut shells in front of a yellow and black rickshaw, the owner in tattered rags sleeping on the back seat as he awaited potential customers. In front of me rickshaws and motorbikes competed with rainbow-clad women and barefoot children for space on the dirt path they called a road.
A waft of sandalwood incense, a smell native to this colonial town, drifted over me, followed immediately after by the sticky sweet scent of mid-afternoon heat in Mysore.
A hundred pairs of big black eyes peered at me from the faces of India: cinnamon browns, chocolate, licorice black and golden yellows glowing in the sun.
Beauty amidst chaos. It makes you smile.
And then, just as quickly as the magic appeared, it was gone again.
"Your country? Yes hello, bananas? You from? What your name? Miss, one school pen? Yes yes try one watch please. Yes hello one rickshaw for you." Calls and stares and aggression infiltrated once more.
The trick in India, it seems like, is to notice those minutes of magic, and hold on to them for dear life. Because this country is exhausting, it's everything that Canada is not (in all the best and the worst of ways), it wears you down and you can't help but think "Why, oh why, did I ever feel the need to come here?"
...so even though sometimes all you want to do is close your eyes and run away from it all, you have to keep those suckers wiiiiide open at all times.
cause otherwise you might miss those seconds of beauty.
otherwise you might miss India.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Commuter Chaos
Another one for the books my friends.
On Tuesday morning at 9 am, we left Hikkaduwa after a tearful goodbye with our friends who we had spent the last two months hanging out with. Boarded an (airconditioned!) bus for Colombo for three hours (which seems like six in Sri Lanka...public transit could still use some work there), then another one hour bus to the airport before catching an hour and a half flight to Chennai.
No problems.
Arrival in Chennai in the scorching heat and humidity, the dust coming up in clouds around our feet, the air full of incense and smoke and the smells of chai and chappati.
A ten hour layover in Chennai during which we decided that our top priority was to SLEEP. 12:30 Wednesday morning-slash-afternoon, after a delicious sleep on an almost clean mattress in an almost respectable guesthouse, we headed to the train station. Destination: Hampi.
Now those of you who have been to India will know that when you take a train or bus here, generally the departure time is reliable. The arrival time, we were to discover, is not.
The plan was thus: 6 hour train to Bangalore, three hour layover, 12 hour train to Hospet (E.T.A. 10:30 in Hospet) and then a 30 minute rickshaw ride to Hampi to round it all out.
Totally reasonable.
Except as you can imagine, that's not quite how things turned out. After all, this is India.
The train to Bangalore was uneventful - as we headed north the landscape moved from desert browns and greys to monsoon greens, and the earth changed from dusty beige to fertile red. Hundreds of Indians wearing every colour of the rainbow swirled around us, young boys selling tea and toys weaved down the aisles calling out their wares.
The layover in Bangalore was equally calm and collected: paneer butter masala and roti for dinner, a quick toothbrushing at the sink in the back of the train station restaurant, and then we headed down the tracks to look for our spots on the overnight sleeper that was to take us twelve hours north to Hospet.
We boarded a typical sleeper train wagon, wading through a sea of peanut shells, plastic wrappers, mud and unidentified liquid to get to the thin blue plastic 'mattresses' which would be our home for the next 12 hours (allegedly).
16 hours, zero food, one bottle of water and eighteen thousand million kilometers in the pouring rain (yes it rained all the way from Bangalore) later, we finally pulled into Hospet train station in the middle of what appeared to be a moonsoon storm.
Pushing our way through a sea of ruby reds and pinapple yellows, children screaming, rain pouring down and wind howling, Sandy managed to barter our tuk tuk down to a reasonable rate to take us the final 30 minute stretch to our new home on Hampi Island.
Or so we thought.
Arrival in Hampi Bazaar, the rain soaking our tropical travel outfits (we were SO unprepared for foul weather, my toes were prunes by this point), our rickshaw driver had some bad news.
"Full river. Closed. No going possible to island tonight. Better you stay here."
Hells no. We came this far, we're not giving up cause of a stupid river. Duncan was on the other side of that km wide stretch of water and we were DETERMINED to get to him.
So we hopped back in the rickshaw to drive 50 km around to the other side of the island. Supposedly it could be done.
"But must take care. Cyclone."
Cool.
Driving through a cyclone in a three wheeler, wearing a tank top and flip flops.
2 freezing cold, rain soaked hours later, we arrived at the bridge across the river. And by bridge I mean washed out road that now blends into the river completely.
Panic at the disco. What on earth were we supposed to do now?
Suddenly out of a nowhere a jeep came screaming by.
"STOP!" we screamed, as I hurtled myself out of the tuk tuk and into the cyclone, chasing after the vehicle.
"Please please please can you try to take us across?" I asked, the rain plastering my already soaking wet hair to my cheeks. "We'll pay, we'll pay!"
So Sandy, myself, our two backpacks and two small daypacks clambered into the trunk of the jeep, trying to wrap our bodies around spare tires and empty crates, and crossing our fingers that the crossing would work.
Nope.
Two meters in, the jeep reversed.
"Not possible. Must go back Hampi"
So we got out of the trunk and back into the rickshaw, and drove another two and a half hours back to where we first started in Hampi Bazaar.
+24 hours of trains, 5 hours in a three wheeler, cyclones, landslides, washed out roads and a (hot!) shower later we were finally at a destination....even if it wasn't our intended one.
Welcome to India.
On Tuesday morning at 9 am, we left Hikkaduwa after a tearful goodbye with our friends who we had spent the last two months hanging out with. Boarded an (airconditioned!) bus for Colombo for three hours (which seems like six in Sri Lanka...public transit could still use some work there), then another one hour bus to the airport before catching an hour and a half flight to Chennai.
No problems.
Arrival in Chennai in the scorching heat and humidity, the dust coming up in clouds around our feet, the air full of incense and smoke and the smells of chai and chappati.
A ten hour layover in Chennai during which we decided that our top priority was to SLEEP. 12:30 Wednesday morning-slash-afternoon, after a delicious sleep on an almost clean mattress in an almost respectable guesthouse, we headed to the train station. Destination: Hampi.
Now those of you who have been to India will know that when you take a train or bus here, generally the departure time is reliable. The arrival time, we were to discover, is not.
The plan was thus: 6 hour train to Bangalore, three hour layover, 12 hour train to Hospet (E.T.A. 10:30 in Hospet) and then a 30 minute rickshaw ride to Hampi to round it all out.
Totally reasonable.
Except as you can imagine, that's not quite how things turned out. After all, this is India.
The train to Bangalore was uneventful - as we headed north the landscape moved from desert browns and greys to monsoon greens, and the earth changed from dusty beige to fertile red. Hundreds of Indians wearing every colour of the rainbow swirled around us, young boys selling tea and toys weaved down the aisles calling out their wares.
The layover in Bangalore was equally calm and collected: paneer butter masala and roti for dinner, a quick toothbrushing at the sink in the back of the train station restaurant, and then we headed down the tracks to look for our spots on the overnight sleeper that was to take us twelve hours north to Hospet.
We boarded a typical sleeper train wagon, wading through a sea of peanut shells, plastic wrappers, mud and unidentified liquid to get to the thin blue plastic 'mattresses' which would be our home for the next 12 hours (allegedly).
16 hours, zero food, one bottle of water and eighteen thousand million kilometers in the pouring rain (yes it rained all the way from Bangalore) later, we finally pulled into Hospet train station in the middle of what appeared to be a moonsoon storm.
Pushing our way through a sea of ruby reds and pinapple yellows, children screaming, rain pouring down and wind howling, Sandy managed to barter our tuk tuk down to a reasonable rate to take us the final 30 minute stretch to our new home on Hampi Island.
Or so we thought.
Arrival in Hampi Bazaar, the rain soaking our tropical travel outfits (we were SO unprepared for foul weather, my toes were prunes by this point), our rickshaw driver had some bad news.
"Full river. Closed. No going possible to island tonight. Better you stay here."
Hells no. We came this far, we're not giving up cause of a stupid river. Duncan was on the other side of that km wide stretch of water and we were DETERMINED to get to him.
So we hopped back in the rickshaw to drive 50 km around to the other side of the island. Supposedly it could be done.
"But must take care. Cyclone."
Cool.
Driving through a cyclone in a three wheeler, wearing a tank top and flip flops.
2 freezing cold, rain soaked hours later, we arrived at the bridge across the river. And by bridge I mean washed out road that now blends into the river completely.
Panic at the disco. What on earth were we supposed to do now?
Suddenly out of a nowhere a jeep came screaming by.
"STOP!" we screamed, as I hurtled myself out of the tuk tuk and into the cyclone, chasing after the vehicle.
"Please please please can you try to take us across?" I asked, the rain plastering my already soaking wet hair to my cheeks. "We'll pay, we'll pay!"
So Sandy, myself, our two backpacks and two small daypacks clambered into the trunk of the jeep, trying to wrap our bodies around spare tires and empty crates, and crossing our fingers that the crossing would work.
Nope.
Two meters in, the jeep reversed.
"Not possible. Must go back Hampi"
So we got out of the trunk and back into the rickshaw, and drove another two and a half hours back to where we first started in Hampi Bazaar.
+24 hours of trains, 5 hours in a three wheeler, cyclones, landslides, washed out roads and a (hot!) shower later we were finally at a destination....even if it wasn't our intended one.
Welcome to India.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
You can go your own way
Today mother nature decided to snub us again. Awoke to a perfect sunrise and flat calm on the water. Swell's over kids.
Good thing Team Adventure's spirits aren't easily dampened.
Undaunted by the lack of waves, we decided to head out into the sand dunes to check out Peanut Farm break, about a five km walk down the beach.
We left at about 9 am, which seemed like a smart idea at the time...but do the math on a 10 km walk in the 35 degree heat, and you'll quickly realize we were walking in peak sunburn hours. Which explains my lobster-esque tone at the moment.
Good thing aloe-vera is plentiful in this part of the world.
Sunburns aside, this morning was one of the million moments in Sri Lanka where the most ordinary aspects of life can push all your boundaries.
As we walked along the white sand beach, the waves crashing on the shore and the tropical sun beating down on us, I commented on how deserted the area was. I think it was the first time I had ever been in a place where you can see for kilometers and kilometers and there is NOTHING but jungle and sand. No other human presence except for you and your friends. And the occassional ruin of a mud hut, suggesting someone used to live around here.
Walking into one of these huts, I commented on how cool and comfortable they seemed.
"This was Tiger house before", came the explanation as to why such a practical little abode would be standing empty.
"All this land, LTT until 5 years ago. Terrorist land"
Intense.
Five years ago, while I was going to Human Rights lectures in my pyjamas and thinking that made me worldly, people here were unable to walk the beaches of their hometown for fear of getting shot at, or abducted.
Five years ago when I barely even knew where Sri Lanka WAS, let alone what life was like here, the paradise beach I walk along was a hotbed of violence and fear.
It's always such a conflicting feeling to be in a place this beautiful where there is such a history of tragedy and repression. Thankfully, though, that's what it really is. History. Past tense.
Because today my Sri Lankan friends were able to take me for a walk down that stretch of sand with ease.
"This free land now," Nalinda said with no small amount of pride in his voice.
"Now we go where we want".
Good thing Team Adventure's spirits aren't easily dampened.
Undaunted by the lack of waves, we decided to head out into the sand dunes to check out Peanut Farm break, about a five km walk down the beach.
We left at about 9 am, which seemed like a smart idea at the time...but do the math on a 10 km walk in the 35 degree heat, and you'll quickly realize we were walking in peak sunburn hours. Which explains my lobster-esque tone at the moment.
Good thing aloe-vera is plentiful in this part of the world.
Sunburns aside, this morning was one of the million moments in Sri Lanka where the most ordinary aspects of life can push all your boundaries.
As we walked along the white sand beach, the waves crashing on the shore and the tropical sun beating down on us, I commented on how deserted the area was. I think it was the first time I had ever been in a place where you can see for kilometers and kilometers and there is NOTHING but jungle and sand. No other human presence except for you and your friends. And the occassional ruin of a mud hut, suggesting someone used to live around here.
Walking into one of these huts, I commented on how cool and comfortable they seemed.
"This was Tiger house before", came the explanation as to why such a practical little abode would be standing empty.
"All this land, LTT until 5 years ago. Terrorist land"
Intense.
Five years ago, while I was going to Human Rights lectures in my pyjamas and thinking that made me worldly, people here were unable to walk the beaches of their hometown for fear of getting shot at, or abducted.
Five years ago when I barely even knew where Sri Lanka WAS, let alone what life was like here, the paradise beach I walk along was a hotbed of violence and fear.
It's always such a conflicting feeling to be in a place this beautiful where there is such a history of tragedy and repression. Thankfully, though, that's what it really is. History. Past tense.
Because today my Sri Lankan friends were able to take me for a walk down that stretch of sand with ease.
"This free land now," Nalinda said with no small amount of pride in his voice.
"Now we go where we want".
Friday, August 28, 2009
School of Life
You know those moments when you think to yourself "wow, I really know absolutely nothing about the world?"
I feel like that every day here.
I came to Sri Lanka mostly because it was the cheapest plane ticket I could find and I had a month (now two months) with nothing to do before hitting up India. I knew next to nothing about the country - it was close to India and there was some sort of war there that had recently ended. The End.
Umm...yeah there's a bit more to it than that.
First lesson on Sri Lankan history I recieved via a tourist brochure: Portugese colony, then Dutch colony in the sixteen hundreds, then Britlish colony until independence in 1948.
Lovely. They're a newly independent nation. That's sweet.
Second lesson on Sri Lankan history was given on the train from Colombo to Akurala by my newly aquired friend Ishok. As we cruised down the raliway tracks, waves crashing on my right, endless jungle on my left, I started to notice lots of ruins of homes. And lots of graves.
"What happened to these houses?" I asked.
"Tsunami".
Remember that tsunami that hit Thailand at Christmas time? Turns out it hit a lot more than Thailand, and Sri Lanka got rocked. 33000 people dead. Everyone knows someone who died (for most it's a close relative), all the young guys on the beach helped dig mass graves and rebuild homes. 250 villages destroyed, one train derailed killing more than 1200 people.
Not so cheerful.
Third lesson on Sri Lankan history aquired in bits and pieces through conversations with shop owners and friends. The war here was to do with Tamils seeking an independent state for themselves in the north. Ethnic cleansing, child soldiers and civilian human shields were all products of the civil strife that lasted 30 years. Aka half of this country's independent life.
Again, everyone here has a story about the war: friends killed, family members fighting...you know how at home we have videos on our cell phones of people smiling and laughing? Here, people show you cell phone videos of bullet ridden bodies strewen in the streets. I'm not kidding, that's what someone showed me the other day.
Heavvvy.
And then today, I learned my fourth lesson on Sri Lanka. Sitting outside the house with my housemate Rikas, the sky bright blue overhead and palm trees swaying in the breeze, he told me about the 1983 communist riots, incited as a result of the Tamil Tigers killing 13 Sri Lankan army soldiers. Taking to the streets under red banners, homes were looted, police and army members and their families killed. Rikas talked about walking down the street and seeing dead bodies stuffed inside burning rubber tires.
"And not just one or two. Hundreds". He said.
"Not just in one village. Everywhere"
Intense.
So while this country is a paradise, a teardrop jewel in the Indian Ocean, and while the people are incredible and the culture fascinating, that doesn't stop it from sometimes feeling like the most tragic place I have ever visited.
I feel like that every day here.
I came to Sri Lanka mostly because it was the cheapest plane ticket I could find and I had a month (now two months) with nothing to do before hitting up India. I knew next to nothing about the country - it was close to India and there was some sort of war there that had recently ended. The End.
Umm...yeah there's a bit more to it than that.
First lesson on Sri Lankan history I recieved via a tourist brochure: Portugese colony, then Dutch colony in the sixteen hundreds, then Britlish colony until independence in 1948.
Lovely. They're a newly independent nation. That's sweet.
Second lesson on Sri Lankan history was given on the train from Colombo to Akurala by my newly aquired friend Ishok. As we cruised down the raliway tracks, waves crashing on my right, endless jungle on my left, I started to notice lots of ruins of homes. And lots of graves.
"What happened to these houses?" I asked.
"Tsunami".
Remember that tsunami that hit Thailand at Christmas time? Turns out it hit a lot more than Thailand, and Sri Lanka got rocked. 33000 people dead. Everyone knows someone who died (for most it's a close relative), all the young guys on the beach helped dig mass graves and rebuild homes. 250 villages destroyed, one train derailed killing more than 1200 people.
Not so cheerful.
Third lesson on Sri Lankan history aquired in bits and pieces through conversations with shop owners and friends. The war here was to do with Tamils seeking an independent state for themselves in the north. Ethnic cleansing, child soldiers and civilian human shields were all products of the civil strife that lasted 30 years. Aka half of this country's independent life.
Again, everyone here has a story about the war: friends killed, family members fighting...you know how at home we have videos on our cell phones of people smiling and laughing? Here, people show you cell phone videos of bullet ridden bodies strewen in the streets. I'm not kidding, that's what someone showed me the other day.
Heavvvy.
And then today, I learned my fourth lesson on Sri Lanka. Sitting outside the house with my housemate Rikas, the sky bright blue overhead and palm trees swaying in the breeze, he told me about the 1983 communist riots, incited as a result of the Tamil Tigers killing 13 Sri Lankan army soldiers. Taking to the streets under red banners, homes were looted, police and army members and their families killed. Rikas talked about walking down the street and seeing dead bodies stuffed inside burning rubber tires.
"And not just one or two. Hundreds". He said.
"Not just in one village. Everywhere"
Intense.
So while this country is a paradise, a teardrop jewel in the Indian Ocean, and while the people are incredible and the culture fascinating, that doesn't stop it from sometimes feeling like the most tragic place I have ever visited.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Melancholy Mood
Since my arrival in Sri Lanka, I have been living with three guys in this amazing house in a beach town called Hikkaduwa.
Comfort Villa. Home away from home.
The guesthouse in and of itself is rad, but what has made the experience here incredible has been the company.
-There's Rikas, the guy who helps run the place. 26-years old, out to have a good time, living 'for today' (as he puts it), and determined to make sure we love Sri Lanka. He's doing a good job.
-There's Siemen. Dutch, a social worker in Amsterdam and the most honest and wonderful human being.
-There's Greg. American, backpacker, world explorer and lover of life.
And there's me. We rock it, we're a team, we support each other and let each other be ourselves with no judgements and total appreciation.
---
Yesterday, Greg left for Austria, and today Siemen went back to Holland.
--------
This is the part of travelling that I hate.
Meeting amazing people and developing relationships with them, learning and exploring and having adventures and just LIVING. And then they leave, or you leave.
Sometimes you might see them again. But most of the time, when you give a last hug as the train pulls out of the station, you know deep in your heart of hearts that those moments you shared were just that.
Moments.
And now they're over. Nothing but a memory remains of those people you loved and laughed with.
Beautiful Goodbyes.
I'm getting really sick of them.
Comfort Villa. Home away from home.
The guesthouse in and of itself is rad, but what has made the experience here incredible has been the company.
-There's Rikas, the guy who helps run the place. 26-years old, out to have a good time, living 'for today' (as he puts it), and determined to make sure we love Sri Lanka. He's doing a good job.
-There's Siemen. Dutch, a social worker in Amsterdam and the most honest and wonderful human being.
-There's Greg. American, backpacker, world explorer and lover of life.
And there's me. We rock it, we're a team, we support each other and let each other be ourselves with no judgements and total appreciation.
---
Yesterday, Greg left for Austria, and today Siemen went back to Holland.
--------
This is the part of travelling that I hate.
Meeting amazing people and developing relationships with them, learning and exploring and having adventures and just LIVING. And then they leave, or you leave.
Sometimes you might see them again. But most of the time, when you give a last hug as the train pulls out of the station, you know deep in your heart of hearts that those moments you shared were just that.
Moments.
And now they're over. Nothing but a memory remains of those people you loved and laughed with.
Beautiful Goodbyes.
I'm getting really sick of them.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Black Magic Woman
It all began at around 8 o'clock on a Tuesday night. After spending the day on the beach, we were looking for something to do that evening (it's low season, so entertainment options are fairly limited), when Chandana came into our beach side cabana.
"Last day of festival in Ounamatouna tonight. We go?" he asked.
"We go."
Armed with flip flops and bus fare, we boarded a rickety old vehicle heading eastbound on Galle Road (the one road that spans the entire coastline of Sri Lanka. Makes getting around really easy when there's only a single street!).
I had no idea what to expect at this 'festival', but was anticipating that we would likely sit somewhere and have some drinks, maybe go see a parade and then dance (the one piece of information I had been given by my Sri Lankan homeboys is that there would be dancing). Easy, predictable, quiet Tuesday night party, right?
Wrong.
I was so far from prepared for what I witnessed that evening.
Black magic or Buddhism, I don't know, but either way it was intense.
We began by visiting the temple to make offerings. Ditching our shoes at the entrance, we bought sticks of incense and climbed a winding staircase, surrounded by hundreds of locals dressed in the colours of their country and religion: the yellows, reds and whites that define Sri Lanak's Buddhists.
There is nothing quite like going to a solemn religious function with a bunch of beach boys who spend their days carving waves and playing in the surf. Watching my friends shed their lifestyle for ten minutes of solemn worship was quite a trip.
And then, the real festival began.
We walked through narrow winding streets overflowing with thousands of men, women and children and all the paraphenalia that makes a festival - toy vendors, food stands, lights, and prayers being chanted on loud speaker - to arrive finally at a large open fire.
About thirty or fourty people dressed in yellow and red were dancing around the flames to the beating of drums. Their bodies flailed and gyrated, arms waving in the air, eyes closed and faces lifted to the skies as they moved in a trance-like state around the fire. Occassionally, one of the group would collapse in a heap or go tearing wildly into the crowd.
"Sometime they go crazy. Is normal. Then we give coconut and go to temple and is fine" Nalinda explained to me.
"Do you really think they go crazy?" I asked.
"Of course!" he replied, his voice rising, incredulous that I might be doubting the power of God over these people.
Coming from a rasta-surfer-playboy, it was a surprising response. But not as suprising as what he told me next.
"I do also" he said with pride.
Turns out a similar Devil festival is held in towns all over the country at this time of year, and Nalina participated in one a few weeks ago, dancing around the fire, running over burning hot coals and making a blood offering (I'll get to that part of the night in a minute). He had the scars on his arms to prove he wasn't making it up.
It's just what people do here.
"it is our culture", Nalinda explained.
The rest of the festival was as intense as the introductory dancing (a far cry from the kind of 'dancing' I had expected; not exactly a bar room dancefloor situation).
We wandered back to the temple in time to see a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in white robes and a red sash, walk into a small room and close the door behind him. He was carrying a sword.
A few moments later, he emerged from the room with his arms lifted high above his head, eyes rolled back in his head, face lifted to the sky. Blood ran down his arms and stained his robes, and the crowd parted to let him through. As he exited the temple gates people surged back together and poured down the street in pursuit of the man. eE joined the crowd streaming down the road towards the fire pit, where I watched in open-mouthed astonishment as this 'possessed' man (for lack of a better term) and dozens of others ran bare-foot over burning hot coals.
Drums beating, prayers screaming over the loudspeakers, women wailing and men singing, small children staring wide-eyed at the sights around them, fire and blood, incense and the sweat of a thousand bodies crushed together.
Festival.
We ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto.
"Last day of festival in Ounamatouna tonight. We go?" he asked.
"We go."
Armed with flip flops and bus fare, we boarded a rickety old vehicle heading eastbound on Galle Road (the one road that spans the entire coastline of Sri Lanka. Makes getting around really easy when there's only a single street!).
I had no idea what to expect at this 'festival', but was anticipating that we would likely sit somewhere and have some drinks, maybe go see a parade and then dance (the one piece of information I had been given by my Sri Lankan homeboys is that there would be dancing). Easy, predictable, quiet Tuesday night party, right?
Wrong.
I was so far from prepared for what I witnessed that evening.
Black magic or Buddhism, I don't know, but either way it was intense.
We began by visiting the temple to make offerings. Ditching our shoes at the entrance, we bought sticks of incense and climbed a winding staircase, surrounded by hundreds of locals dressed in the colours of their country and religion: the yellows, reds and whites that define Sri Lanak's Buddhists.
There is nothing quite like going to a solemn religious function with a bunch of beach boys who spend their days carving waves and playing in the surf. Watching my friends shed their lifestyle for ten minutes of solemn worship was quite a trip.
And then, the real festival began.
We walked through narrow winding streets overflowing with thousands of men, women and children and all the paraphenalia that makes a festival - toy vendors, food stands, lights, and prayers being chanted on loud speaker - to arrive finally at a large open fire.
About thirty or fourty people dressed in yellow and red were dancing around the flames to the beating of drums. Their bodies flailed and gyrated, arms waving in the air, eyes closed and faces lifted to the skies as they moved in a trance-like state around the fire. Occassionally, one of the group would collapse in a heap or go tearing wildly into the crowd.
"Sometime they go crazy. Is normal. Then we give coconut and go to temple and is fine" Nalinda explained to me.
"Do you really think they go crazy?" I asked.
"Of course!" he replied, his voice rising, incredulous that I might be doubting the power of God over these people.
Coming from a rasta-surfer-playboy, it was a surprising response. But not as suprising as what he told me next.
"I do also" he said with pride.
Turns out a similar Devil festival is held in towns all over the country at this time of year, and Nalina participated in one a few weeks ago, dancing around the fire, running over burning hot coals and making a blood offering (I'll get to that part of the night in a minute). He had the scars on his arms to prove he wasn't making it up.
It's just what people do here.
"it is our culture", Nalinda explained.
The rest of the festival was as intense as the introductory dancing (a far cry from the kind of 'dancing' I had expected; not exactly a bar room dancefloor situation).
We wandered back to the temple in time to see a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in white robes and a red sash, walk into a small room and close the door behind him. He was carrying a sword.
A few moments later, he emerged from the room with his arms lifted high above his head, eyes rolled back in his head, face lifted to the sky. Blood ran down his arms and stained his robes, and the crowd parted to let him through. As he exited the temple gates people surged back together and poured down the street in pursuit of the man. eE joined the crowd streaming down the road towards the fire pit, where I watched in open-mouthed astonishment as this 'possessed' man (for lack of a better term) and dozens of others ran bare-foot over burning hot coals.
Drums beating, prayers screaming over the loudspeakers, women wailing and men singing, small children staring wide-eyed at the sights around them, fire and blood, incense and the sweat of a thousand bodies crushed together.
Festival.
We ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Sri Lankan Dayz
There are days when you forget why you're on the road. When you are dirty and dusty and tired and frustrated by language barriers, and all you can think of is home and your own bed and the comforts of familiarity.
And then there are the other days.
Like today.
Today, I woke up with the sunlight filtering through my curtains onto my pillow. As I lay in the rays, I debated whether to have a balcony coffee before, or after, my run on the beach. Tough decisions.
A peek out the door onto my private balcony revealed a view dominated by clusters of palm trees and a wide, deep blue sky. Red flowers filled the bushes, and you could smell the salt in the breeze off the ocean.
Grabbing my running shoes, I headed down the lane to the beach, crossing over a set of rusted railway tracks past homes built in the style of the Dutch colonizers of years past.
I passed clusters of men in saraongs, their deep brown skin glistening in the morning sun. Three wheelers and local buses, decaled and colourful and perfectly tropical cruised by me on the road, honking a simultaneous greeting and warning to each other.
The sand was soft under my feet as I kicked off my shoes to run barefoot along the beach, ocean spray wetting my legs as the waves crashed and tumbled beside me. Early morning fishermen walked the shoreline and the mist off the dunes gave the entire place a wild and untamed feel.
A swim in the surf to rinse the sweat way, then home to shower. A cup of coffee on the balcony as I watched my neighbours begin their daily rituals - girls in white school uniforms walking to school, mothers with small children in tuk tuks, the paper boy cruising by on his bicycle.
As ten a.m. rolled around, another tough decision to face: suntanning, or another swim?
This is why we travel.
And then there are the other days.
Like today.
Today, I woke up with the sunlight filtering through my curtains onto my pillow. As I lay in the rays, I debated whether to have a balcony coffee before, or after, my run on the beach. Tough decisions.
A peek out the door onto my private balcony revealed a view dominated by clusters of palm trees and a wide, deep blue sky. Red flowers filled the bushes, and you could smell the salt in the breeze off the ocean.
Grabbing my running shoes, I headed down the lane to the beach, crossing over a set of rusted railway tracks past homes built in the style of the Dutch colonizers of years past.
I passed clusters of men in saraongs, their deep brown skin glistening in the morning sun. Three wheelers and local buses, decaled and colourful and perfectly tropical cruised by me on the road, honking a simultaneous greeting and warning to each other.
The sand was soft under my feet as I kicked off my shoes to run barefoot along the beach, ocean spray wetting my legs as the waves crashed and tumbled beside me. Early morning fishermen walked the shoreline and the mist off the dunes gave the entire place a wild and untamed feel.
A swim in the surf to rinse the sweat way, then home to shower. A cup of coffee on the balcony as I watched my neighbours begin their daily rituals - girls in white school uniforms walking to school, mothers with small children in tuk tuks, the paper boy cruising by on his bicycle.
As ten a.m. rolled around, another tough decision to face: suntanning, or another swim?
This is why we travel.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
moments in time
There are some days on the road where it feels like not a whole lot is happening. And then all of a sudden BAM. Ten thousand experiences in one fell swoop.
With absolutely no way of sharing them without boring you to tears.
Nobody wants to read a ten page long explanation of the journey from Pokhara, Nepal to Delhi, India to Colombo, Sri Lanka. It's boring...trains, buses, jeeps, more buses, airplanes.
Seriously.
Who cares?
And yet, the last four days have been so jam-packed with experiences...maybe you will care.
There's a lot of sights and smells and assaults on the senses that happen on a 48+ hour journey. The colours of the people all around you: dressed in everything from jeans and t-shirts to saris and lungis and hijabs, their skins gleaming chocolaty brown, golden yellow and charcoal black. The smells that waft in through an open window: sewage and piles of burning garbage, fields of flowers and wafts of incense drifting from road-side temples.
The sensations that clog your pores: sweat glistening on every face, dirt clinging to your skin and clothes, sea-salt spray kissing your cheeks, sun beaming down on your arm as it hangs out the side of a train.
The sounds that assault your ears: horns honking in warning, children laughing as they dance naked in the monsoon rains, soundtracks from popular movies blasting from shops and car stereos, cries of the hawkers selling their wares in every place imaginable (buses, trains, streets, rooftops...).
And the thoughts that accompany those experiences: why does everyone keep staring at me? how am i supposed to feel about the slumlife and absolute poverty that dots the landscape? why do even the poorest of the poor, with no running water, still have cell phones? what do you say to the guy who lost his father and two nieces in the tsunami, and whose brother was killed fighting the Tamil Tigers?
How do I ever begin to understand all these things I'm witnessing...and how do I even begin to share them with YOU?
With absolutely no way of sharing them without boring you to tears.
Nobody wants to read a ten page long explanation of the journey from Pokhara, Nepal to Delhi, India to Colombo, Sri Lanka. It's boring...trains, buses, jeeps, more buses, airplanes.
Seriously.
Who cares?
And yet, the last four days have been so jam-packed with experiences...maybe you will care.
There's a lot of sights and smells and assaults on the senses that happen on a 48+ hour journey. The colours of the people all around you: dressed in everything from jeans and t-shirts to saris and lungis and hijabs, their skins gleaming chocolaty brown, golden yellow and charcoal black. The smells that waft in through an open window: sewage and piles of burning garbage, fields of flowers and wafts of incense drifting from road-side temples.
The sensations that clog your pores: sweat glistening on every face, dirt clinging to your skin and clothes, sea-salt spray kissing your cheeks, sun beaming down on your arm as it hangs out the side of a train.
The sounds that assault your ears: horns honking in warning, children laughing as they dance naked in the monsoon rains, soundtracks from popular movies blasting from shops and car stereos, cries of the hawkers selling their wares in every place imaginable (buses, trains, streets, rooftops...).
And the thoughts that accompany those experiences: why does everyone keep staring at me? how am i supposed to feel about the slumlife and absolute poverty that dots the landscape? why do even the poorest of the poor, with no running water, still have cell phones? what do you say to the guy who lost his father and two nieces in the tsunami, and whose brother was killed fighting the Tamil Tigers?
How do I ever begin to understand all these things I'm witnessing...and how do I even begin to share them with YOU?
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Lost In Translation
Every time I think I'm starting to understand things here, another curve-ball gets thrown my way.
The other day I was over at my neighbour Sita's house having tea with her and her daughters, practicing my ten words of Nepali, when Sita came out with the most bizarre request I had ever heard.
After a delicious cup of Masala tea, we were sitting together discussing Sita's daughter Ganga's upcoming nursing school exams. During a slight lull in the conversation, Sita turned to me with a smile:
"I want to give you a bra," she said.
Uhh....what?
"A bra?" I asked, my confusion evident.
"Yes," she smiled lifting her sari to point to her own lacy black one for emphasis. "Bra."
you want...to give me...
a bra....?
Say yes to more things I thought to myself. It's not your culture... Don't insult them by saying no.
"Um...ok, thanks Sita, that would be great" I replied, trying to hide the hesitation in my voice.
"Because your country good quality. Nepal bad quality. I give you a bra" she leaned back, evidently satisfied with herself.
Aha! That was it. She wanted me to give her a bra. Good ol' pronoun confusion.
Happy to have solved this mystery, and relieved that I wouldn't be the recipient of a used undergarment, I sat back on the bench with a smile.
Then I thought about it again. Language barrier or no language barrier, that's still the wierdest request I've ever heard. I mean I clearly don't have extra brand-new bras just kickin around in my 50L backpack. So did she want a used bra?
It would appear so.
Wierd.
...I told her I'd see what I could do.
The other day I was over at my neighbour Sita's house having tea with her and her daughters, practicing my ten words of Nepali, when Sita came out with the most bizarre request I had ever heard.
After a delicious cup of Masala tea, we were sitting together discussing Sita's daughter Ganga's upcoming nursing school exams. During a slight lull in the conversation, Sita turned to me with a smile:
"I want to give you a bra," she said.
Uhh....what?
"A bra?" I asked, my confusion evident.
"Yes," she smiled lifting her sari to point to her own lacy black one for emphasis. "Bra."
you want...to give me...
a bra....?
Say yes to more things I thought to myself. It's not your culture... Don't insult them by saying no.
"Um...ok, thanks Sita, that would be great" I replied, trying to hide the hesitation in my voice.
"Because your country good quality. Nepal bad quality. I give you a bra" she leaned back, evidently satisfied with herself.
Aha! That was it. She wanted me to give her a bra. Good ol' pronoun confusion.
Happy to have solved this mystery, and relieved that I wouldn't be the recipient of a used undergarment, I sat back on the bench with a smile.
Then I thought about it again. Language barrier or no language barrier, that's still the wierdest request I've ever heard. I mean I clearly don't have extra brand-new bras just kickin around in my 50L backpack. So did she want a used bra?
It would appear so.
Wierd.
...I told her I'd see what I could do.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Monsoon rains
Monsoon.
It sounds so exotic when you read it. And yet it has taken me a month and a half to realize how exotic it is to actually live it.
It all started as an ordinary day, albeit an extremely hot one. A day filled with the heat you can only understand through experience. The kind of heat that leaves a thin film of sweat over your entire body, no matter how little you move. The kind of heat that is so damp you can almost drink it, and so potent that you cannot escape it. The kind of heat that leaves you begging the sky to cloud over and rain down on you.
After a day of dragging our bodies from one shady corner to the next, my dear friend Hannah and I settled on the front porch to have an allegedly 'cold' beer and a chat. It was early evening, but the sun's rays were still beating down fiercely.
Around 6:30, clouds began to appear in the sky. Their appearance changed rapidly from innocent white fluff to black rain clouds looming ominously over us.
A storm was looming.
Thank God.
Within a few hours the wind had picked up significantly and people were rushing past our gate, trying to beat the storm to their front doors. As the trees waved and bowed in the wind, the clouds opened up and rain came pouring down on us.
It really can only be described as pouring. Something like a giant tap being turned on over your head - there are no raindrops, there are rivers falling from the sky.
In the span of a few minutes the streets had turned to lakes of ankle deep, murky brown water. The sewers raged as a slate-coloured stream of water from the hills flows through them. Even under a porch, a meter away from the rain, you were still getting drenched.
And then the thunder and lightning came. The sky lit up for a second, and in that time you glimpsed the outlines of a forest covered mountain, trees buckling under the pressure of wind and water, and a wall of rain blowing past you. Count to five....and then the thunder rolled over the mountains, echoing in a way that I could never hope to describe in words.
And as we sat witnessing Mother Nature's temper tantrum, all I could think was "I love my life."
It sounds so exotic when you read it. And yet it has taken me a month and a half to realize how exotic it is to actually live it.
It all started as an ordinary day, albeit an extremely hot one. A day filled with the heat you can only understand through experience. The kind of heat that leaves a thin film of sweat over your entire body, no matter how little you move. The kind of heat that is so damp you can almost drink it, and so potent that you cannot escape it. The kind of heat that leaves you begging the sky to cloud over and rain down on you.
After a day of dragging our bodies from one shady corner to the next, my dear friend Hannah and I settled on the front porch to have an allegedly 'cold' beer and a chat. It was early evening, but the sun's rays were still beating down fiercely.
Around 6:30, clouds began to appear in the sky. Their appearance changed rapidly from innocent white fluff to black rain clouds looming ominously over us.
A storm was looming.
Thank God.
Within a few hours the wind had picked up significantly and people were rushing past our gate, trying to beat the storm to their front doors. As the trees waved and bowed in the wind, the clouds opened up and rain came pouring down on us.
It really can only be described as pouring. Something like a giant tap being turned on over your head - there are no raindrops, there are rivers falling from the sky.
In the span of a few minutes the streets had turned to lakes of ankle deep, murky brown water. The sewers raged as a slate-coloured stream of water from the hills flows through them. Even under a porch, a meter away from the rain, you were still getting drenched.
And then the thunder and lightning came. The sky lit up for a second, and in that time you glimpsed the outlines of a forest covered mountain, trees buckling under the pressure of wind and water, and a wall of rain blowing past you. Count to five....and then the thunder rolled over the mountains, echoing in a way that I could never hope to describe in words.
And as we sat witnessing Mother Nature's temper tantrum, all I could think was "I love my life."
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Low Season
I've started staring at the tourists.
It's strange how after a few months in a single place you start to feel like you are a part of it. People recognize you on the street. You become a regular at certain restaurants and cafes. Families invite you over for dinner. Friends refuse to speak to you in English, forcing you to practice their native tongue instead.
You stop taking notice of the water buffalo on your doorstep each morning, or the fact that its curd here, not yogurt. Motorcycles replace cars as the preferred method of transportation. Paying $4 for a meal seems outrageously expensive. You become a part of the woodwork. You start to belong.
....Or at least you can fake it better.
And just when I'm starting to feel like I'm a part of it - meeting people, making work connections, realizing how much more TIME I need here - I'm off.
Sri Lanka at the end of the month baby.
Let's go.
It's strange how after a few months in a single place you start to feel like you are a part of it. People recognize you on the street. You become a regular at certain restaurants and cafes. Families invite you over for dinner. Friends refuse to speak to you in English, forcing you to practice their native tongue instead.
You stop taking notice of the water buffalo on your doorstep each morning, or the fact that its curd here, not yogurt. Motorcycles replace cars as the preferred method of transportation. Paying $4 for a meal seems outrageously expensive. You become a part of the woodwork. You start to belong.
....Or at least you can fake it better.
And just when I'm starting to feel like I'm a part of it - meeting people, making work connections, realizing how much more TIME I need here - I'm off.
Sri Lanka at the end of the month baby.
Let's go.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Shell shocked by the sterility
How do I begin to describe what it feels like to visit the second richest economy in the world after having lived in the second poorest country in the world?
Shell-shocked is the best term I can come up with.
Japan
is
nuts.
Here's a few comparisons for y'all to mull over as you enjoy a beer on a sunny patio in July:
average monthly salary in Japan (allegedly): 2500 USD. [I think this must be wrong...it must be higher because the cost of living is so insanely high here]
average YEARLY salary in Nepal: 470 USD
typical street in Japan: Spotlessly, obsessively clean. Filled with cars that run smoothly and silently. Lined by stores selling every item imaginable from Hello Kitty bags to Louis Vutton suits.
typical street in Nepal: Dirty and disordered. Filled with rickshaws, water buffalo and a few motorcycles all making a heap of noise. Lined with garbage, livestock and a few small shops.
a cheap meal in Japan: 10-15 USD
a cheap meal in Nepal: 1-2 USD
typical streetwear in Tokyo: Glammmmmmmed up women in designer dresses, wearing SKY high stillettos. Harajuko girls in outrageous cos play outfits (google it if you don't know what that means), goth guys in black mesh shirts with hairstyles that defy description.
typical streetwear in Pokhara: Saris and khurta shurbas. Sandals or bare feet depending on your preference and/or financial restrictions. All the colours of the rainbow, with very few frills.
typical bathroom in Japan: Tiny, and containing a toilet likely designed by NASA. Remote control flushers, princess sound systems (as in the toilet makes a noise while you go about your business to mask any embarrassing sound faux-pas), bidets and 'powerful deodorizers'. As in the toilet smells like roses.
typical bathroom in Nepal: A bucket to shower with. A hole for a toilet.
Japanese grub: Sushi, sashimi, pastries filled with mysterious bean pastes. McDonalds and Starbucks if you so desire. french croissants and pain au chocolate. Wine, beer, sake and very respectable coffee.
Nepali grub: Dhal bhat (lentils and rice). Milk tea. Occasionally a warm beer. Very very very rarely a cold one.
Japanese sporting event: Tigers baseball game. Possibly the funniest most outrageous thing you have ever witnessed - quiet, timid Japanese men and women decked out in allll the team gear chanting and screaming and singing. But in an orderly fashion.
Nepali sporting event: Volleyball or cricket in the dirt. Definitely no local sports teams and no stadiums.
Japanese greeting: a complex series of bows....Very Complex. I don't understand the rules...but it's insane to watch. On the trains, the women selling coffee and snacks bow when they enter AND when they leave every. single. car.
on the streets, people keep their heads down and avoid eye contact for the most part.
Nepali greeting: hands over heart, 'Namaste' and a head wiggle.
on the street, people smile and say hello to everyone, calling each other sister/brother, aunt and uncle whether they are related or not.
One country has its roots in order, discipline, structure and rules. The trains are always on time, everything is impeccably clean, there's little to no visible poverty (at least in the cities).
The other country has its roots in chaos. Nothing is ever on time, it's always dirty, most people are poor.
One country is prim and proper. One is filled with passion.
Guess which one's which......
It's been fascinating being here.
It's been over-the-top amazingly awesome to spend time with my family again.
And I'm stoked to go back to my little chaotic paradise soon.....
Shell-shocked is the best term I can come up with.
Japan
is
nuts.
Here's a few comparisons for y'all to mull over as you enjoy a beer on a sunny patio in July:
average monthly salary in Japan (allegedly): 2500 USD. [I think this must be wrong...it must be higher because the cost of living is so insanely high here]
average YEARLY salary in Nepal: 470 USD
typical street in Japan: Spotlessly, obsessively clean. Filled with cars that run smoothly and silently. Lined by stores selling every item imaginable from Hello Kitty bags to Louis Vutton suits.
typical street in Nepal: Dirty and disordered. Filled with rickshaws, water buffalo and a few motorcycles all making a heap of noise. Lined with garbage, livestock and a few small shops.
a cheap meal in Japan: 10-15 USD
a cheap meal in Nepal: 1-2 USD
typical streetwear in Tokyo: Glammmmmmmed up women in designer dresses, wearing SKY high stillettos. Harajuko girls in outrageous cos play outfits (google it if you don't know what that means), goth guys in black mesh shirts with hairstyles that defy description.
typical streetwear in Pokhara: Saris and khurta shurbas. Sandals or bare feet depending on your preference and/or financial restrictions. All the colours of the rainbow, with very few frills.
typical bathroom in Japan: Tiny, and containing a toilet likely designed by NASA. Remote control flushers, princess sound systems (as in the toilet makes a noise while you go about your business to mask any embarrassing sound faux-pas), bidets and 'powerful deodorizers'. As in the toilet smells like roses.
typical bathroom in Nepal: A bucket to shower with. A hole for a toilet.
Japanese grub: Sushi, sashimi, pastries filled with mysterious bean pastes. McDonalds and Starbucks if you so desire. french croissants and pain au chocolate. Wine, beer, sake and very respectable coffee.
Nepali grub: Dhal bhat (lentils and rice). Milk tea. Occasionally a warm beer. Very very very rarely a cold one.
Japanese sporting event: Tigers baseball game. Possibly the funniest most outrageous thing you have ever witnessed - quiet, timid Japanese men and women decked out in allll the team gear chanting and screaming and singing. But in an orderly fashion.
Nepali sporting event: Volleyball or cricket in the dirt. Definitely no local sports teams and no stadiums.
Japanese greeting: a complex series of bows....Very Complex. I don't understand the rules...but it's insane to watch. On the trains, the women selling coffee and snacks bow when they enter AND when they leave every. single. car.
on the streets, people keep their heads down and avoid eye contact for the most part.
Nepali greeting: hands over heart, 'Namaste' and a head wiggle.
on the street, people smile and say hello to everyone, calling each other sister/brother, aunt and uncle whether they are related or not.
One country has its roots in order, discipline, structure and rules. The trains are always on time, everything is impeccably clean, there's little to no visible poverty (at least in the cities).
The other country has its roots in chaos. Nothing is ever on time, it's always dirty, most people are poor.
One country is prim and proper. One is filled with passion.
Guess which one's which......
It's been fascinating being here.
It's been over-the-top amazingly awesome to spend time with my family again.
And I'm stoked to go back to my little chaotic paradise soon.....
Monday, June 15, 2009
Weeping for Joy
I went up to one of the daycares that I work with today. It was intense.
The children are AMAZING. They are all so adorable, and some of them are sharp as anything. They smile and laugh and play and it warms your heart.
And then you look around.
The daycare they attend used to be a stable for horses. I say 'used to be' because they tore it down last week. Before it got torn down, there were three classes: one for 2 year olds, one for 3-4 year olds and one for 5/6s. Each classroom was a 3x3m concrete block with a window. The children in the 3/4 and 5/6 classes gathered around lowered coffee tables, one per classroom. On one wall in each room hung a chalkboard. The two year olds sat on worn pieces of carpet and played with dirty stuffed animals.
That was before the demolition.
The tearing down is actually a good thing - they're putting up a new 6 room school house in its place. Three rooms for the kids, one room for a women's training program, and one room for a kids with special needs program. The sixth room will be an office.
When they tore it down, they said the new building would be in place in six months. Nepali time-wise, that means we'll be lucky if the kids are in a new school this time next year. Extremely lucky.
In the meantime, the daycare has been moved to two closets (one's about 1mx4m, the other is about 3x2) and an 'outdoor' classroom for the older kids. The outdoor classroom consists of four pieces of metal normally used for roofing. There's three walls and a cover overhead. Think stable-without-the-hay and you get anidea of the set up. Devastating.
There's 30 kids who attend the school. The program funding them is actually one of the success stories here (yes, this is what success looks like in a third world country). The kids are all given uniforms and school supplies, they are provided with vitamins every other day, medicine when sick and they get a meal at school each day. The parents, in return, have to make sure they go to school every day. End of story. Every child is sponsored until the age of 16 (donors commit to a minimum of 10 years funding a child), so there's the assurance they will finish high school. Inspiring.
Nepal is a country of constant contrasts.
One where you can bask in the glow of a program that provides hope and a future to dozens of impoverished children, while simultaneously raging at the conditions that hope and future have to exist under.
The children are AMAZING. They are all so adorable, and some of them are sharp as anything. They smile and laugh and play and it warms your heart.
And then you look around.
The daycare they attend used to be a stable for horses. I say 'used to be' because they tore it down last week. Before it got torn down, there were three classes: one for 2 year olds, one for 3-4 year olds and one for 5/6s. Each classroom was a 3x3m concrete block with a window. The children in the 3/4 and 5/6 classes gathered around lowered coffee tables, one per classroom. On one wall in each room hung a chalkboard. The two year olds sat on worn pieces of carpet and played with dirty stuffed animals.
That was before the demolition.
The tearing down is actually a good thing - they're putting up a new 6 room school house in its place. Three rooms for the kids, one room for a women's training program, and one room for a kids with special needs program. The sixth room will be an office.
When they tore it down, they said the new building would be in place in six months. Nepali time-wise, that means we'll be lucky if the kids are in a new school this time next year. Extremely lucky.
In the meantime, the daycare has been moved to two closets (one's about 1mx4m, the other is about 3x2) and an 'outdoor' classroom for the older kids. The outdoor classroom consists of four pieces of metal normally used for roofing. There's three walls and a cover overhead. Think stable-without-the-hay and you get anidea of the set up. Devastating.
There's 30 kids who attend the school. The program funding them is actually one of the success stories here (yes, this is what success looks like in a third world country). The kids are all given uniforms and school supplies, they are provided with vitamins every other day, medicine when sick and they get a meal at school each day. The parents, in return, have to make sure they go to school every day. End of story. Every child is sponsored until the age of 16 (donors commit to a minimum of 10 years funding a child), so there's the assurance they will finish high school. Inspiring.
Nepal is a country of constant contrasts.
One where you can bask in the glow of a program that provides hope and a future to dozens of impoverished children, while simultaneously raging at the conditions that hope and future have to exist under.
Friday, May 29, 2009
What exactly do you DO all day?!?
A few people have been asking what the heck I'm doing with my life these days.
Fear not inquisitors, I shall explain.
I have been in Pokhara for about three weeks now, and will remain in this corner of the Earth for another two months, working with an organization called Nepal House.
Nepal House is a Canadian-Nepali NGO (we recieved 'charity' status in Canada quite recently actually. Pretty exciting), with two branches to it. Here in Pokhara, Nepal House Kaski is the branch which provides psychological counselling services to children who have been victims of trauma, abuse, neglect, poverty, etc. etc.
Seeing as there was a civil war here in the last 10 years which killed over 17 000 people, there's a fair few traumatized children in need of these services.
Nepal House Kaski is staffed by four Nepalese men and women who have been trained in play and art counselling/therapy.
At home in Vancouver, Nepal House Society is the branch of the organization dedicated to providing funding and education opportunities to the Nepalese people working at NHK.
NHS' primary goal is to 'create capacity in Nepal'. Basically, the idea is to try and avoid a band-aid approach to support; instead of bombing in from Canada and helping out for a few months then leaving again, we come here to train the people who work directly with the children. Counsellors, caregivers, orphanage managers and health care professionals from about 15 different orphanages and children's homes in the Pokhara valley recieve support from NHK/NHS on a regular basis.
As a speech-pathologist, I am here providing the Nepali people with some information on child language development and the process of learning. We are running a series of five-day workshops, centered on various topics of relevance to the caregivers and the work they do out here.
It's amazing, and incredibly challenging. The barriers these children (and their caregivers) face on a daily basis are so far removed from the challenges we face at home. The environments they live in are so different from the child care centers I am used to working with, there are concerns about landslides, lack of electricity, road blocks and strikes which take precedence over concerns like cleanliness of toys (where toys are present) or a child who can't say their 's' sound.
Despite this, the people are all so welcoming and so eager to learn that you are left with no other desire than to hunker down and try to come up ways to teach them new skills within the context of their lives, a million miles removed from the comforts and conveniences of home.
Anybody who is interested, NHS' website is http://www.nepalhousesociety.org/
Fear not inquisitors, I shall explain.
I have been in Pokhara for about three weeks now, and will remain in this corner of the Earth for another two months, working with an organization called Nepal House.
Nepal House is a Canadian-Nepali NGO (we recieved 'charity' status in Canada quite recently actually. Pretty exciting), with two branches to it. Here in Pokhara, Nepal House Kaski is the branch which provides psychological counselling services to children who have been victims of trauma, abuse, neglect, poverty, etc. etc.
Seeing as there was a civil war here in the last 10 years which killed over 17 000 people, there's a fair few traumatized children in need of these services.
Nepal House Kaski is staffed by four Nepalese men and women who have been trained in play and art counselling/therapy.
At home in Vancouver, Nepal House Society is the branch of the organization dedicated to providing funding and education opportunities to the Nepalese people working at NHK.
NHS' primary goal is to 'create capacity in Nepal'. Basically, the idea is to try and avoid a band-aid approach to support; instead of bombing in from Canada and helping out for a few months then leaving again, we come here to train the people who work directly with the children. Counsellors, caregivers, orphanage managers and health care professionals from about 15 different orphanages and children's homes in the Pokhara valley recieve support from NHK/NHS on a regular basis.
As a speech-pathologist, I am here providing the Nepali people with some information on child language development and the process of learning. We are running a series of five-day workshops, centered on various topics of relevance to the caregivers and the work they do out here.
It's amazing, and incredibly challenging. The barriers these children (and their caregivers) face on a daily basis are so far removed from the challenges we face at home. The environments they live in are so different from the child care centers I am used to working with, there are concerns about landslides, lack of electricity, road blocks and strikes which take precedence over concerns like cleanliness of toys (where toys are present) or a child who can't say their 's' sound.
Despite this, the people are all so welcoming and so eager to learn that you are left with no other desire than to hunker down and try to come up ways to teach them new skills within the context of their lives, a million miles removed from the comforts and conveniences of home.
Anybody who is interested, NHS' website is http://www.nepalhousesociety.org/
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
A heart of gold, a fistful of pennies
The Nepalese people are often described as the most kind and generous people you will meet.
With good reason.
I am constantly baffled by the ability of people here to give and give and give, despite having next to nothing for themselves.
Last night was my co-worker and good friend Michelle's final evening in Pokhara. She's been here for two months, providing support to the counsellors at Nepal House - teaching them about report writing, confidentiality and a plethora of other therapy-related skills.
In order to celebrate the end of her time here, our family at the coffee house where we go pretty much every day decided to have us all over for dinner. Imagine the world's smallest coffee house (there's four tables in total - max of 10 customers at a time), with the smallest kitchen. At the back of the kitchen are the two tiny rooms that the family lives in - the one bedroom is piled high with clothes, baby paraphenelia, jewellery, blankets , towels and all the other necessities of daily life.
When I arrived, the 22-year-old daughter Sabina gave me a big smile and informed me that I was to borrow one of her saris to wear for the evening. It was gorgeous. There is no piece of clothing more flattering than a sari, I am convinced.
After decking myself and Michelle out in her clothing, bangles and hair clips (Sabina and her sister even had to dress us - you try figuring out how to wrap yourself up in that piece of cloth), we had a photo shoot and sat down to the most incredible vegetarian meal ever. All eight of us.
Between the food, the colourful clothing and the fantastic company you might have thought we were in a five star hotel. Until you looked around and remembered how little these people have.
And yet they give and give, with an open-heartedness and ease which puts our Western concepts of generosity to shame.
That dinner was not the first act of kindness I have experienced here, and I'm sure it will not be the last. And every time I've tried to reject the Nepali kindness for fear of decimating their meager wealth, they smile and say
"you are family here. If I am in Canada, you would do the same for me."
....would we?
With good reason.
I am constantly baffled by the ability of people here to give and give and give, despite having next to nothing for themselves.
Last night was my co-worker and good friend Michelle's final evening in Pokhara. She's been here for two months, providing support to the counsellors at Nepal House - teaching them about report writing, confidentiality and a plethora of other therapy-related skills.
In order to celebrate the end of her time here, our family at the coffee house where we go pretty much every day decided to have us all over for dinner. Imagine the world's smallest coffee house (there's four tables in total - max of 10 customers at a time), with the smallest kitchen. At the back of the kitchen are the two tiny rooms that the family lives in - the one bedroom is piled high with clothes, baby paraphenelia, jewellery, blankets , towels and all the other necessities of daily life.
When I arrived, the 22-year-old daughter Sabina gave me a big smile and informed me that I was to borrow one of her saris to wear for the evening. It was gorgeous. There is no piece of clothing more flattering than a sari, I am convinced.
After decking myself and Michelle out in her clothing, bangles and hair clips (Sabina and her sister even had to dress us - you try figuring out how to wrap yourself up in that piece of cloth), we had a photo shoot and sat down to the most incredible vegetarian meal ever. All eight of us.
Between the food, the colourful clothing and the fantastic company you might have thought we were in a five star hotel. Until you looked around and remembered how little these people have.
And yet they give and give, with an open-heartedness and ease which puts our Western concepts of generosity to shame.
That dinner was not the first act of kindness I have experienced here, and I'm sure it will not be the last. And every time I've tried to reject the Nepali kindness for fear of decimating their meager wealth, they smile and say
"you are family here. If I am in Canada, you would do the same for me."
....would we?
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
mo ali ali Nepali balshu
Allow me to tell you all a little story...
So today, being that it was beautiful and sunny and I found myself with an afternoon off, I decided to take my bike (her name is MeanJean and she is fabulous) and head off in search of the fruit and vegetable market.
My Nepali sister Sonu had already taken me there twice, so I figured I could find my way.
True to form, however, I immediately got lost. For a long time...
Determined not to go home empty handed (particularly because I had promised Sonu I would bring her back a papaya), I finally veered off to a roadside fruit stand to see if I could purchase some goods.
After a good ten minutes of miming and garbling my way through my Nepali vocabulary, a kind gentleman who spoke a bit of English took pity on me and came over to translate. With his assistance, I purchased 4 kilos of bananas, apples and mangos (amph) for 210 rupees. That's about 3.50 Canadian.
Bolstered by these successful purchases, and happy to have found myself a personal fruit guide, I asked my new friend if he could inquire about the possibility of procuring some papaya.
"Yes yes, i asking for you".
Sadly, the response was in the negative. No papayas at this fruit stand.
"You no worry, I am seeing some papaya, you come with me" and he walked off, motioning over his shoulder for me to follow him.
5 steps later, we were on the sidewalk, staring at what was very clearly someone's garden wall.
"You see? papayas!" he cried, pointing upwards.
And there, hanging from a tree in all its yellow-green glory, was a papaya.
"Oh yeah, but I think those belong to someone" I laughed, not thinking he was serious. Was he really about to go ask some random family to sell me two papayas off the tree in their backyard?
"No, no! No worry, I am asking them" he exclaimed, and walked off to talk to a group of elderly gentlemen who were sitting curbside enjoying a cup of chia.
15 minutes and 10 new Nepali friends later, a nice young gentleman walked out of the house, shimmed up the tree and cut down my prize. Coming out onto the sidewalk where I stood, he held out not one but two glorious papayas (meowa).
The price? 75 cents.
You don't get service like this in Canada.
So today, being that it was beautiful and sunny and I found myself with an afternoon off, I decided to take my bike (her name is MeanJean and she is fabulous) and head off in search of the fruit and vegetable market.
My Nepali sister Sonu had already taken me there twice, so I figured I could find my way.
True to form, however, I immediately got lost. For a long time...
Determined not to go home empty handed (particularly because I had promised Sonu I would bring her back a papaya), I finally veered off to a roadside fruit stand to see if I could purchase some goods.
After a good ten minutes of miming and garbling my way through my Nepali vocabulary, a kind gentleman who spoke a bit of English took pity on me and came over to translate. With his assistance, I purchased 4 kilos of bananas, apples and mangos (amph) for 210 rupees. That's about 3.50 Canadian.
Bolstered by these successful purchases, and happy to have found myself a personal fruit guide, I asked my new friend if he could inquire about the possibility of procuring some papaya.
"Yes yes, i asking for you".
Sadly, the response was in the negative. No papayas at this fruit stand.
"You no worry, I am seeing some papaya, you come with me" and he walked off, motioning over his shoulder for me to follow him.
5 steps later, we were on the sidewalk, staring at what was very clearly someone's garden wall.
"You see? papayas!" he cried, pointing upwards.
And there, hanging from a tree in all its yellow-green glory, was a papaya.
"Oh yeah, but I think those belong to someone" I laughed, not thinking he was serious. Was he really about to go ask some random family to sell me two papayas off the tree in their backyard?
"No, no! No worry, I am asking them" he exclaimed, and walked off to talk to a group of elderly gentlemen who were sitting curbside enjoying a cup of chia.
15 minutes and 10 new Nepali friends later, a nice young gentleman walked out of the house, shimmed up the tree and cut down my prize. Coming out onto the sidewalk where I stood, he held out not one but two glorious papayas (meowa).
The price? 75 cents.
You don't get service like this in Canada.
Friday, May 15, 2009
If it's for you in life, it will never pass you by
How does one begin to describe a place like Nepal?
I've been using words like amazing and majestic, in an attempt to convey something of the jaw-dropping, monumental intensity of this place.
But words aren't big enough for this country.
When you're surrounded by the endless sprawl of the Himalayas - and they really ARE endless - you somehow feel like a giant and a grain of sand, all at once....
This feels like a place where you can be something. Where you can help and be helped, where you can teach and learn, all in equal parts.
It feels like the place I've been searching for forever...only I never even realized I was
looking.
There are a thousand reasons to love a place like Nepal. And a thousand reasons why it will break your heart.
You love it for the colours. Look up, and you see blues, greys, golds and whites filling the skies. Look down and you see the dark greens and browns of the forest and earth. Look around, and you'll also see the reds, the purples and the pinks that gleam on the traditional dress of the Nepalis, the Tibetans, the Indians who all live here in a semblance of harmony. You see the oranges and yellows of the fishing boats, reflecting off the surface of Phewa lake. It's amazing.
You love it for the light. Light which can change in the span of a few minutes from the ominous darkness of a thunderstorm to the dazzling light of the sun as it bounces off the snow-capped peaks of the Annapurnas. Majestic. Jaw droppingly majestic.
I've been here a week. And every day, I have to stop at least 18 times just to LOOK. It takes my breath away.
This chapter's gonna be a good one kids.
I've been using words like amazing and majestic, in an attempt to convey something of the jaw-dropping, monumental intensity of this place.
But words aren't big enough for this country.
When you're surrounded by the endless sprawl of the Himalayas - and they really ARE endless - you somehow feel like a giant and a grain of sand, all at once....
This feels like a place where you can be something. Where you can help and be helped, where you can teach and learn, all in equal parts.
It feels like the place I've been searching for forever...only I never even realized I was
looking.
There are a thousand reasons to love a place like Nepal. And a thousand reasons why it will break your heart.
You love it for the colours. Look up, and you see blues, greys, golds and whites filling the skies. Look down and you see the dark greens and browns of the forest and earth. Look around, and you'll also see the reds, the purples and the pinks that gleam on the traditional dress of the Nepalis, the Tibetans, the Indians who all live here in a semblance of harmony. You see the oranges and yellows of the fishing boats, reflecting off the surface of Phewa lake. It's amazing.
You love it for the light. Light which can change in the span of a few minutes from the ominous darkness of a thunderstorm to the dazzling light of the sun as it bounces off the snow-capped peaks of the Annapurnas. Majestic. Jaw droppingly majestic.
I've been here a week. And every day, I have to stop at least 18 times just to LOOK. It takes my breath away.
This chapter's gonna be a good one kids.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Adios Vietnam, Namaste Nepal
Wow, I'm getting worse and worse and updating this puppy.
A quick recap of the last few weeks:
After quitting the backpacker guide job in Hanoi, I headed south to Saigon to see Brandon and Adam.
It was EPIC.
I landed in Ho Chi Minh City and as soon as I got off the plane the boys were waiting for me.
There are no words that can describe how wonderful it felt to see them again. Three years is a long time to go without seeing someone of monumental importance in your life.
Cool as.
They then proceeded to show me a side of Vietnam which I probably NEVER would have been able to access without them. I went to aerobics classes with Brandon's girlfriend Quyen (hilarious...picture about fifty teeny little Vietnamese ladies jumping around on a cement courtyard to some of the most aweful pop music you have ever heard. Soooo fun).
We went to a wedding (Vietnamese weddings last exactly one hour: you sit down, drink a bunch of beer, eat, then leave. You can tell who partied hardest based on the size of the trash pile under their table. Try not to kick over the thousands of empties as you leave).
We went to the Mekong delta and hung out with Quyen's family for the national holiday, then went to a seaside resort where Brandon and I were the only two white people. Sort of makes you feel like a rockstar when people stare at you that much.
I went to Vung Tau with Adam and his girlfriend where I got to experience karaoke. Real karaoke with a bunch of Vietnamese bar staff. I am not even going to begin to try to relate the hilarity of THAT experience.
Stories and experiences to last a lifetime.
I know you guys are going to read this so THANK YOU. Y'all killed it.
Quickly raced back to Bangkok after Saigon, where I was reunited with some folks from Vang Vieng for a night or two on Khao San Road.
And now...at long last...I am in NEPAL.
Two years of dreaming, and I'm finally here. I keep pinching myself. Kathmandu is everything I dreamed it would be and more. The smells, the colours, the people....this is going to be amazing.
I leave for Pokhara in the morning. Nepal House, here I come!
A quick recap of the last few weeks:
After quitting the backpacker guide job in Hanoi, I headed south to Saigon to see Brandon and Adam.
It was EPIC.
I landed in Ho Chi Minh City and as soon as I got off the plane the boys were waiting for me.
There are no words that can describe how wonderful it felt to see them again. Three years is a long time to go without seeing someone of monumental importance in your life.
Cool as.
They then proceeded to show me a side of Vietnam which I probably NEVER would have been able to access without them. I went to aerobics classes with Brandon's girlfriend Quyen (hilarious...picture about fifty teeny little Vietnamese ladies jumping around on a cement courtyard to some of the most aweful pop music you have ever heard. Soooo fun).
We went to a wedding (Vietnamese weddings last exactly one hour: you sit down, drink a bunch of beer, eat, then leave. You can tell who partied hardest based on the size of the trash pile under their table. Try not to kick over the thousands of empties as you leave).
We went to the Mekong delta and hung out with Quyen's family for the national holiday, then went to a seaside resort where Brandon and I were the only two white people. Sort of makes you feel like a rockstar when people stare at you that much.
I went to Vung Tau with Adam and his girlfriend where I got to experience karaoke. Real karaoke with a bunch of Vietnamese bar staff. I am not even going to begin to try to relate the hilarity of THAT experience.
Stories and experiences to last a lifetime.
I know you guys are going to read this so THANK YOU. Y'all killed it.
Quickly raced back to Bangkok after Saigon, where I was reunited with some folks from Vang Vieng for a night or two on Khao San Road.
And now...at long last...I am in NEPAL.
Two years of dreaming, and I'm finally here. I keep pinching myself. Kathmandu is everything I dreamed it would be and more. The smells, the colours, the people....this is going to be amazing.
I leave for Pokhara in the morning. Nepal House, here I come!
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Just Another Day At The Office
For the past two weeks I've been working at a hostel in Hanoi running party tours out to Ha Long Bay.
And it has been incredible.
Not only have I been able to save money and party like a rockstar on a daily basis, but the people I have met here have been AMAZING.
The say a journey is to be measured in friends not miles, and it is true.
The tour I've been running consists of a night on a boat in Ha Long bay, followed by a night on Cat Ba Island. In both places I was lucky enough to work with some really incredible Vietnamese people who were so friendly and welcoming and immediately made me feel like a part of the team. I had heard a lot of negative things about the Vietnamese before coming here, but I can say in all honesty I have yet to meet a Vietnamese person I don't like.
And it really feels like you are their friend, not just some random foreigner who happens to work with them.
Example:
On the boat, there are 6 or 7 Vietnamese staff, including one girl. As a female, I tend to try and bond with the other females as much as possible (lends you more street cred if the girls like you), so it was really important to me that she like me.
On my third or fourth tour, I was sitting at a table in the boat restaurant and she walked up to me without saying a word and put a bracelet around my wrist.
It's not a particularly gorgeous or expensive bracelet, but to me it is one of the best gifts I have ever recieved. To me, that bracelet means I'm accepted and welcomed in a place where I am an ignorant intruding...and as a traveller, I don't think there's a better feeling than that.
I leave Hanoi tomorrow...I'm FINALLY going to meet up with Brandon and Adam in HCMC, then off to Nepal at the beginning of May.
Let the good times roll.
And it has been incredible.
Not only have I been able to save money and party like a rockstar on a daily basis, but the people I have met here have been AMAZING.
The say a journey is to be measured in friends not miles, and it is true.
The tour I've been running consists of a night on a boat in Ha Long bay, followed by a night on Cat Ba Island. In both places I was lucky enough to work with some really incredible Vietnamese people who were so friendly and welcoming and immediately made me feel like a part of the team. I had heard a lot of negative things about the Vietnamese before coming here, but I can say in all honesty I have yet to meet a Vietnamese person I don't like.
And it really feels like you are their friend, not just some random foreigner who happens to work with them.
Example:
On the boat, there are 6 or 7 Vietnamese staff, including one girl. As a female, I tend to try and bond with the other females as much as possible (lends you more street cred if the girls like you), so it was really important to me that she like me.
On my third or fourth tour, I was sitting at a table in the boat restaurant and she walked up to me without saying a word and put a bracelet around my wrist.
It's not a particularly gorgeous or expensive bracelet, but to me it is one of the best gifts I have ever recieved. To me, that bracelet means I'm accepted and welcomed in a place where I am an ignorant intruding...and as a traveller, I don't think there's a better feeling than that.
I leave Hanoi tomorrow...I'm FINALLY going to meet up with Brandon and Adam in HCMC, then off to Nepal at the beginning of May.
Let the good times roll.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Good Morning Vietnam!
Updates, updates, updates. Finally.
Three days ago I arrived in Hanoi, Vietnam after having spent two and a half weeks (I think?.. time stands till when you travel) in Laos.
I'm going to try and describe some of the differences between the two countries, although I'm realizing more and more how hard it is to share my experiences with people at home. You sort of have to see these things to really understand them....I say this because I remember reading Brandon's blog on Vietnam when he first left, and the descriptions he gave of what he saw here never really registered until I arrived and saw all of these things for myself.
But I'll try my best to convey some bits and pieces.
Laos first.
Laos is GORGEOUS. Even though it is a landlocked country and we all know how much I love the ocean, I still say it's one of the most beautiful places I've been.....when the smog lifts.
For the first week I was there, everything was engulfed in thick clouds. You could vaguely make out the outline of hills, and imagine how beautiful the country might be if you could just SEE something.
The reason for the cloud cover is because in northern Thailand, Burma and Laos the farmers burn their fields in March. Apparently the ash is a powerful fertilizer. It's also a powerful pollutant, but nobody seems to care (eco-consciousness hasn't really hit south east asia yet).
However. Once I got to Vang Vieng it rained for a day, and then BAM. The Laos that everyone talks about appeared:
Rolling hills, mountain peaks, and limestone cliff formations surround Vang Vieng on all sides while the Nam Xong river flows along the western edge of the town. It's green and lush and the jungle is exactly how you would imagine a tropical forest. Spectacular.
Hence why I got stuck in Vang Vieng for two weeks. It was just too pretty to leave. And fun.
Ambience wise, I would compare VV to summer camp for big kids: everyone in town knows each other within three days of being there and there's tons of outdoor activities to do: tubing, rock climbing, biking, caving, hiking, swimming...PLUS you get all those things you wanted at summer camp but couldn't have cause you were little: co-ed rooms, bars and debauchery on a regular basis. Those who have been know what I'm talking about.
Good times had by all. And then I came to Hanoi.
Holy different city batman.
Hanoi is a city of four million people, with an estimated 2.5 million motorcycles. That's a lot of motorcycles in one place. Sort of a shocker after the relative calm and quiet of Laos.
The streets are narrow and filled with people, food stands, vendors, animals (not dogs and cats, ANIMALS: chickens and cows and turtles...); there are piles of bricks and dirt everywhere (things appear to be in a perpetual state of construction or destruction, I can't quite figure out which it is)...basically picture a city in Canada and then imagine everything being exactly the opposite of that. You'll start to get a bit of an idea of what Hanoi is like.
The poverty level is a bit hard to figure out, perhaps because of the socialism thing. You get the impression that people aren't as poor as in laos, but at the same time people here harass you a lot more...I don't know if it's because they need the money , or they've just figured out that tourist = rich.
Because even if I'm dirt poor by Canadian standards, I'm definitely still in the top 1% of the population here. Wierd.
-----
Ok that's all I've got for now folks. Hope this satisfies the cravings of those who are still reading the blog. Miss you all and hope everyone is having a happy easter.
My Easter Dinner was a medly of snake meat, intestines, ribs and snake blood. Delicious.
Enjoy the ham.
Three days ago I arrived in Hanoi, Vietnam after having spent two and a half weeks (I think?.. time stands till when you travel) in Laos.
I'm going to try and describe some of the differences between the two countries, although I'm realizing more and more how hard it is to share my experiences with people at home. You sort of have to see these things to really understand them....I say this because I remember reading Brandon's blog on Vietnam when he first left, and the descriptions he gave of what he saw here never really registered until I arrived and saw all of these things for myself.
But I'll try my best to convey some bits and pieces.
Laos first.
Laos is GORGEOUS. Even though it is a landlocked country and we all know how much I love the ocean, I still say it's one of the most beautiful places I've been.....when the smog lifts.
For the first week I was there, everything was engulfed in thick clouds. You could vaguely make out the outline of hills, and imagine how beautiful the country might be if you could just SEE something.
The reason for the cloud cover is because in northern Thailand, Burma and Laos the farmers burn their fields in March. Apparently the ash is a powerful fertilizer. It's also a powerful pollutant, but nobody seems to care (eco-consciousness hasn't really hit south east asia yet).
However. Once I got to Vang Vieng it rained for a day, and then BAM. The Laos that everyone talks about appeared:
Rolling hills, mountain peaks, and limestone cliff formations surround Vang Vieng on all sides while the Nam Xong river flows along the western edge of the town. It's green and lush and the jungle is exactly how you would imagine a tropical forest. Spectacular.
Hence why I got stuck in Vang Vieng for two weeks. It was just too pretty to leave. And fun.
Ambience wise, I would compare VV to summer camp for big kids: everyone in town knows each other within three days of being there and there's tons of outdoor activities to do: tubing, rock climbing, biking, caving, hiking, swimming...PLUS you get all those things you wanted at summer camp but couldn't have cause you were little: co-ed rooms, bars and debauchery on a regular basis. Those who have been know what I'm talking about.
Good times had by all. And then I came to Hanoi.
Holy different city batman.
Hanoi is a city of four million people, with an estimated 2.5 million motorcycles. That's a lot of motorcycles in one place. Sort of a shocker after the relative calm and quiet of Laos.
The streets are narrow and filled with people, food stands, vendors, animals (not dogs and cats, ANIMALS: chickens and cows and turtles...); there are piles of bricks and dirt everywhere (things appear to be in a perpetual state of construction or destruction, I can't quite figure out which it is)...basically picture a city in Canada and then imagine everything being exactly the opposite of that. You'll start to get a bit of an idea of what Hanoi is like.
The poverty level is a bit hard to figure out, perhaps because of the socialism thing. You get the impression that people aren't as poor as in laos, but at the same time people here harass you a lot more...I don't know if it's because they need the money , or they've just figured out that tourist = rich.
Because even if I'm dirt poor by Canadian standards, I'm definitely still in the top 1% of the population here. Wierd.
-----
Ok that's all I've got for now folks. Hope this satisfies the cravings of those who are still reading the blog. Miss you all and hope everyone is having a happy easter.
My Easter Dinner was a medly of snake meat, intestines, ribs and snake blood. Delicious.
Enjoy the ham.
Monday, March 23, 2009
row, row, row your boat
After a week hanging out in northern Thailand, a group of ten of us decided it was time to move.
Destination: Luang Prabang, Laos.
Method of travel: overnight bus to the border, followed by a slow boat ride down the Mekong.
I had heard a lot about these 'slow boat' adventures. But nothing anyone had said really prepared me for the experience.
It was quite possibly one of the wierdest things I've ever been a part of.
After crossing the border at 8 a.m. and figuring out our visas, about 80 people were piled into a boat approximately 5 meters wide (and I'm being generous), and 30 meters long. Cozy.
Knowing myself, I decided to head to the back of the boat where there was a little outdoor 'deck' (again, I use the term liberally), which could have seated three or four people comfortably.
There were 10 of us back there.
And then the drinking started.
Now we all know I'm never one to shy away from a party, but this particular venue just seemed bizarre to me. Here's a big group of white tourists, crammed onto a boat, pumping music on their portable Ipod speakers, getting ridiculously drunk and ignoring the whole 'point' of the boat trip: viewing the Laotian country side and slowly savouring a new culture.
Those who have taken a slow boat before will know that as you travel down the Mekong, you pass by some incredibly remote villages (hamlets, really) - five or six bamboo huts stuck into the hills, hours and hours from anything that could be considered civilization.
And on a daily basis, hundreds of drunk tourists cruise by these isolated towns, throwing cigarette buts overboard, yelling and screaming, etc. etc. Really culurally sensitive.
All I could think of the entire time is "What must the Lao people in these villages think of us? "
Not to say I didn't enjoy the experience. It was just..different. Interesting, but I wouldn't do it again.
After the slow boat ride I spent three days in Luang Prabang with some of my slow boat buddies, and then a group of us caught an early bus to Vang Vieng, where I am now. Tomorrow we're going tubing....which I am willing to wager will be an experience similar to the slow boat. Minus the boat.
On another note, Laos is freaking gorgeous. Everywhere you look there are these fantastic rolling hills covered in lush tropical vegetation. Occassionally you see an elephant or water buffalo chilling out, and there are some of the most spectacular waterfalls I've ever swam in.
Life is beautiful.
Destination: Luang Prabang, Laos.
Method of travel: overnight bus to the border, followed by a slow boat ride down the Mekong.
I had heard a lot about these 'slow boat' adventures. But nothing anyone had said really prepared me for the experience.
It was quite possibly one of the wierdest things I've ever been a part of.
After crossing the border at 8 a.m. and figuring out our visas, about 80 people were piled into a boat approximately 5 meters wide (and I'm being generous), and 30 meters long. Cozy.
Knowing myself, I decided to head to the back of the boat where there was a little outdoor 'deck' (again, I use the term liberally), which could have seated three or four people comfortably.
There were 10 of us back there.
And then the drinking started.
Now we all know I'm never one to shy away from a party, but this particular venue just seemed bizarre to me. Here's a big group of white tourists, crammed onto a boat, pumping music on their portable Ipod speakers, getting ridiculously drunk and ignoring the whole 'point' of the boat trip: viewing the Laotian country side and slowly savouring a new culture.
Those who have taken a slow boat before will know that as you travel down the Mekong, you pass by some incredibly remote villages (hamlets, really) - five or six bamboo huts stuck into the hills, hours and hours from anything that could be considered civilization.
And on a daily basis, hundreds of drunk tourists cruise by these isolated towns, throwing cigarette buts overboard, yelling and screaming, etc. etc. Really culurally sensitive.
All I could think of the entire time is "What must the Lao people in these villages think of us? "
Not to say I didn't enjoy the experience. It was just..different. Interesting, but I wouldn't do it again.
After the slow boat ride I spent three days in Luang Prabang with some of my slow boat buddies, and then a group of us caught an early bus to Vang Vieng, where I am now. Tomorrow we're going tubing....which I am willing to wager will be an experience similar to the slow boat. Minus the boat.
On another note, Laos is freaking gorgeous. Everywhere you look there are these fantastic rolling hills covered in lush tropical vegetation. Occassionally you see an elephant or water buffalo chilling out, and there are some of the most spectacular waterfalls I've ever swam in.
Life is beautiful.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)