The Universal Image of Our Age

This, I submit, is the singular, unifying image of our age.

At its core is a possession wanted by all; evidently affordable to most. It is ubiquity defined. Its promotion bankrolls shop signs, football team jerseys and the coliseums of the 21th century. From the Maluti mountains in Lesotho to the markets of Mysore, I have seen this image repeated thousands of times. I have borne its witness in the sacred mosques of Istanbul and on the lonely, rugged coast of Wales. There are few boundaries to its presence and, with each year, fewer barriers to its use. As a totem to today's younger generation, it is what wearing blue jeans was to mine - the defining symbol of a time. It is the ultimate global flattener - aspired to by all, a unifying icon that erases distance and the borders of nations. It flaunts the barricades of culture - a seemingly unstoppable force defying the constraints of religion and governments.

In some places, I have seen it used as an entertainment. Young couples on the lawns of the Taj Mahal and the majestic parks of Windsor - lying together on the grass, gazing into its all-consuming face. As it always present, its developers have extended its scope and shape well beyond original purpose. It is a personal servant that can buy Bollywood tickets in Delhi and play your current favourite tune over and over and over again on the dusty roads of Zanzibar. It can capture your image wherever and whenever, dispatching it for display in an instant. Its holding, coddling and protection has spawned whole new product lines for purse makers in Turkey and the craft weavers of Nepal. Beyond anything else, it is the the single thing that no respectable teenager can be without wherever they might live - a symbol of arrival chic and modern, the price of admission to a continually connected global tribe. As I travel the world, I see this image at every turn, in every place stationary or moving.

What I see is truly universal. What I see is young people in communion with their cellphones.

A Thought for the Day on Travelling

"The frontiers of a country should never be the frontiers of a person's world. Those unwilling to learn from languages, cultures and traditions beyond the boundaries of their own country are in prison, even if they may not notice the bars"

Michael Ignatieff, True Patriot Love

Enthusiastically agreed!

Unpacked but still unpacking

Greetings all - on Wednesday evening we arrived at our latest destination on the "If not now, when" tour de monde ... home! We pictured this event many times and in many places over the past year and on Wednesday evening it unfurled just as we had planned as we rolled up the driveway in our own car and dragged our bags across the entry threshold one last time. How strange the feeling, yet how wonderful for we world-weary two. And how nice to be back in the embrace of a community of good friends with, perhaps, a good story or two to tell. And as for this place, our province's "tag line" motto is "The Best Place on Earth". I have seen no place in my travels this year that might upset BC as at least a very strong contender for this moniker

Just to catch up on the travel part, we left Toronto in the last week of August and added one last time to our immense airborne-induced carbon footprint by flying to Winnipeg. There we were reacquainted with our darling daughter Elisabeth Grace and her boyfriend Jesse and Mad Max our trusty Nissan Maxima. Instead of bolting west for home like most reasonable folks would do on the home stretch, we chose a 5800 km meander through the Dakotas, Wyoming, Montana and then northward up into Kananaskis country in Alberta for a camping weekend with Bruce, Sharon, Jessica and Mark (where we safely returned our fearless global navigator Spunky the Monkey to his family). Only then we pointed Mad Max westward ho! and headed for the coast.

Still peering at the world through the lenses of my traveller's eye, two observations about the our trip through the north-central USA registered deeply with me.

First of all, I found myself aghast and asking myself : How did these people get so huge? A nation of giants - upwards and outwards. The obesity pandemic was most painfully evident throughout our week in the USA - and perhaps amplified after seeing legions of rail-thin people in Africa and India. An estimated 30% of Americans have inflated themselves into the "clinical obesity" category - so it s not a minor phenomenon.How disgusting; how enormously self-indulgent and costly to an already expensive health care system.

On a more positive note, I was much impressed by the way that Americans publicly portray and celebrate their history. I fulfilled a lifelong wish of seeing Mount Rushmore in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Mt. Rushmore is a stunning display of patriotism told in a very stirring fashion - set in the middle of nowhere (Indeed, its origin stems back to a South Dakota Senator who proposed a sculpture in order to attract tourists to this remote, but beautiful, part of the state). The sculptures are impressive indeed. If George Washington's granite hewn head were mounted on a scaled body , he would be 40 stories tall! More impressive, however, was the stories told in the interpretation centre about the four presidents depicted on the mountain and how they had created a country that changed the world and still serves as a beacon of idealism in these oh-so-practical times. I found myself thinking What would Canada's Mt. Rushmore look like? First of all, it would not likely get off the drawing hoard as it would be seen as too extravagant and expensive - "a dollar spent on commemorating our prime ministers is a dollar too much". Secondly, I suspect we would not dare proposing to celebrate a group of politicians who, as a profession, many Canadians seem to consider petty thieves and swindlers, crazy men or general ne'er-do-wells on the take. With this attitude firmly entrenched, we can be sure to get the governments we deserve for a long time in the future. While I am on this historical theme, we also followed sections of the Lewis and Clark trail (while reading Stephen Ambrose's excellent account of the expedition - "Undaunted Courage"). We passed dozens of historical sites and trail markers and could have gone to at least 4 interpretation centres in the states we visited. We spend three hours in the interpretation centre in Great Falls, Montana - a marvellous museum full of multi-media presentations and even real park ranger-type historians presenting lectures about many aspects of the Lewis and Clark expedition. Crossing the border into Canada, into the vast country that David Thompson charted at the same time covering as much, if not more, territory than Lewis and Clark - we found nothing in our trip through Alberta and BC's Columbia watershed in BC to mark his immense role in defining our country. No museums, no historical plaques - though I'm sure one or two of these must exist somewhere. Most of the Lewis and Clark commemorations were built in 2005-06 to mark the 200th anniversary of their expedition. David Thompson's bicentennial was 2008 - and what did we do? I know there were proposals for recreating his voyage down the Columbia but did anything happen? If we do not as a nation nurture our history, we condemn ourselves to a rudderless drift through time. With so many other countries we have visted doing a much better job than Canada of telling their story (the National Trust in the UK springs to mind), how do we expect new immigrants to Canada to attach themselves to a meaningful understanding of their new home. Instead of tackling this question head-on, we spend our time wondering why these folks cloister and comfort themselves in the traditions and cultures that they supposedly "left behind". Something, as usual, to ponder in more detail in the future.

While we have unpacked our bags, we expect it will take much longer to unpack our journey. We have felt very fortunate to do the things we have done and see the places and people we have seen. To be part of the world or a part from it? - that is the question. There were many times I wish I could make what I was seeing in Africa and India go away. And many more times I was deeply moved by what I was experiencing. If I've lost anything on this journey, it is any capacity to deny that there is real and profound hardship in many parts of the world. I have also lost my ability to insulate myself from this suffering as something I need never see or think about as we lead our charmed lives in "the Best Place on Earth". Whatever remained of this particular bubble is forever broken. While I may have some more unpacking left to be done, I rather doubt I will find these capacities again. Though I will not deny that sometimes I will miss them.

Adjusting Again

Greetings faithful blogistas. We find ourselves adjusting to yet another country on the "If not now, when" tour de monde and this time it is our own. Still viewing the world through a traveller's eye, Canada immediately conjures up some unforgettable images for these weary wanderers.

Our first real re-entry to Canada began a week before we left when I found myself unexpectedly in the Canadian embassy in Rome one business day before we were due to leave for Toronto from Paris. This particular rendez-vous with representatives of my home and native land was occasioned by an incident the day before in Pisa when I was relieved of my passport courtesy some crafty pickpockets at the Pisa airport. Having your passport stolen along with various bank cards, traveller's cheques and cash is not something I would wish on anyone - especially if you are on the verge of leaving for home. However, I must say that the process for a replacement passport, although a multi-Euro blowout, was commendably smooth and efficient. Our consular staff abroad has been taking some heat recently - particularly in the highly bizarre case of Suaad Mohamud in Kenya. However, the experience of this Canadian was entirely different. I filled out my first forms at 9:30 in the morning and had a temporary passport in my hands by 3:00 that afternoon.

After adding yet again to our carbon footprint by flying from Rome to Paris, we spent a delightful day in the city of light and magic - mostly flaked out like many others in the Jardin du Luxembourg. The next day we flew to Toronto.

Some of the differences I observed on returning to Canada were evident immediately. Unlike many airports in the world where the corridors streaming out towards the international arrivals hall are decked with dramatic photos and assorted tourist eye candy, none of this is on display in the grey and sterile halls snaking through the new international terminal at Toronto's Pearson airport. Indeed - godstruth!!! - we actually saw a Tim Horton's outlet before we saw the "Welcome to Canada" sign as we approached the customs and immigration hall. Being the famously egalitarian nation that we are, all aspiring entrants to Canada are herded in common towards the immigration booths. In most other countries we have entered, special lines are reserved for the country's nationals.

Once we got out and about the following day, one of the first things we observed was the enormous number of chain stores that present themselves in even the smallest of strip malls. Welcome to Maltropolitan Toronto. We effortlessly hit three of them within the first half-hour of a small shopping expedition to restock our supplies. With the exception of the UK (which, for the record, is not half as bad as Canada in this respect), we had spent all of our trip shopping in small stores and boutiques in countries which appear to have successfully kept the invasion of the chains at bay.
A more sobering observation was run-down state of large swaths of the Toronto area with its cracking road infrastructure and a plethora of "For Lease"-posted and weeded-up warehouses and industrial plants - visible evidence of the economic downturn in Canada's rust-belt surrounding Toronto. This does not, however, appear to stop the steady march of new, ticky-tacky suburbs leap-frogging over suburbs and swarming the land. A five day sojourn in Ottawa took us through some wonderful open spaces and landscapes that were a balm for the eye after many months of enduring crowded, garbage-strewn places where nature is ravaged. Yet among this splendid scenery we saw several beat up, rusted-out trailers and work sheds scattered around the roadsides as if they had been tossed there by a super-human litterbug. The vastness of the space can, I suppose, accommodate the odd blight. And in the midst of this vastness I was happily reminded that there is really nothing in the world more refreshing and restorative than a summer dip in a fresh Canadian shield lake.

This week we start our homeward journey - with a first stop in Winnipeg where we will be reunited with our wonderful daughter as well as Mad Max, our trusty Nissan Maxima. Mad Max will be our steed for our road journey westward which will hopefully present more observations to harvest. Westward ho!!!

The Moveable Feast Returns to the beginning

Greetings all - the Moveable Feast has returned to from whence it began - Paris. For those who dont know, "The Moveable Feast" is the title of Ernest Hemingway's memoir of life in Paris in the 1920s which I consider to be his best book. It is a captivating piece of travel writing that well captures both time and place for those of us - like me - who wish we had been there alongside Papa H and his exotic menagerie of friends. It seemed to me a good title for this blog for a trip where we have feasted on the scents, sites and sounds of many parts of the world that I would have scarely imagined I would visit even a few years ago. I am not signing off yet as we still have a North American part of this adventure ahead and I look forward to compiling my often acerbic and twisted reportage on the trail back home.

My one resounding piece of advice to all - if you can take a year off to travel or do whatever you want for that matter, do it! - and do it while you are still lucky enough to have the good health and energy to make the best of it. Patty and I are indeed fortunqte to be in this coveted state and to have had this opportunity - no matter how often we were reminded that we were no longer backpackers in our early 20s.

Naturally, we are a wee bit travel weary at this point (some 85 beds into the trip) and are looking forward to our return to Canadian soil. During our last few weeks in Croatia and Italy, we have been hit by the dual sledgehammers of a heat wave and a full-frontal tourist blitz throughout the sites and cafes of these places. The latter has been worse in many respects but we have enjoyed soem of its sideline benefits - for example, overhearing the most remarkable conversations between distinctly unworldly tourists and, in internet and telephone cafes, their colourful phone calls back to their Moms trying to extract extra cash because their hostel is a mess. We can just hear their Moms thinking that it could not possibly be worse than the state of thir bedrooms at home.

After travelling gracefully incident-free for ten months, our luck finally ran out this week at the Pisa airport where I was relieved of my passport and other valuables by a pick pocket. All of a sudden we were not lazing around Pisa enjoying its famously tilting sites, we were bulleting to Rome to get to the Canadian embassy on the last business day before a long weeken to get an emergency passport. The Embassy was able to perform magnificently under the circumstances in a multi-multi Euro transaction. The consular staff also let me know that it has one of the highest incident rates in the world for stolen passports confirming that Italian operators are not only deft with their hands in carving marble and painting ceilings.

I am spending today researching the big differences between Paris and Rome - two frontline contenders for the classiest cities in Europe. Early observations in Paris suggest far fewer sunglasses deployed and far more smlall dogs relieving themselves on the streets. Nor have we seen any police women in high heels yet. In Italy, unlike at home, I noted that the highway authorities do not dare tell Italians to take off their sunglasses when entering tunnels. Anyone who has driven in Italy will recall how prodigous are the Italians in tunnel building. Rather than asking that sunglasses be removed, they simply light up these immense tunnels so vision through Raybans is comfortable.

Au revoir

Negotiating B&B and "V" Tuscan style

Buongiorno from the rolling hills of Tuscany, where Patty and I have beat a retreat to escape from sweltering temperatures the likes of which have haunted us often during our trip. My meager attempts to read an Italian newspaper the other day suggested to me that substantial parts if Italy are on fire - or were those fireman in the photo hosing down another of Sr Berlusciloni's hot house parties. Perhaps both. Nevertheless, we have found ourselves the temporary and only occupants of the agriturismo Poderuccio, a guesthouse housed in a small wine and olive oil farrm perched atop a panoramic ridge just outside of Montalcino, south of Sienna. The world economic implosion has certainly dampened tourism throughout those parts of the world we have visited on this trip. We have had no difficulty getting rooms anywhere and usually in the places we want to stay. My sharply honed haggling skills built in mouth-to-yell commercial combat in the markets of India, Africa and Turkey has enabled me to enjoy a significant advantage in negotiating room rates. I usually ask for the best rate for one night, try and bargain this down and then ask for the rate for 3 or 4 nights while wrenching a confession from the landlord that his establishment is empty or, at best, not very busy. This has usually worked to shave precious rupees, forints, lira, rand, kuna, pounds sterling and euros off of rates, allowing us reinvest premiums into the beverage budget while staying within our target day expenditures. But here, dear blogistas, in the verdant slopes if Tuscany, I appear to have met my match.

Our landlady at the Poderuccio is a small and energetic contadina who has managed to reach her mid-40's without acquiring a single word of English. Now I would not want my Italian to be put to the same test, but then again, I am not in the hospitality industry in one of the most attractive locations in Europe. We arrived here on Thursday and pulled our car into an empty parking lot - a good sign. After exchanging perfunctory greetings, we got down to business. Her first salvo, based on one night accommodation was pitched at €50 a night for B+B. Despite my pointing to the empty parking lot, no yielding was forthcoming beyond saying (as far as I could tell) that this was already a discounted rate - the "Italian move", a favourite opening gambit in these parts. I countered with a request for her best rate for 3 nights. She turned over a fresh piece of paper in my notebook and after thoughtful calculation offered us 3 nights for €150. I began to feign profound contempt accompanied by a lot of arm waving and a rattling of car keys signalling our imminent departure, when she paused and asked us to follow her out of her makeshift reception office to a room at the back of the farm. She opened the door and led us into the wine cellar. Reaching for two wine glasses, she poured us some fresh Orcia Rosso from a cask - a fine if junior vintage from her own vineyards deep in the heart of Italy's premiere Brunello wine country. The wine delivered an effective and salubrious staunching of my next line of attack. Detecting a brief moment of weakness, she pounced again leaving little to be lost in translation with her next scribblings - "Stay 4 nights at €50 a night and I will throw in a couple of bottles of this - 2005's no less, considered to be a very good year around here". As I paused to muster my thoughts and launch my next move, I mysteruously found my voice overtaking this effort with a new found independence of its own - "SOLD" ... Ooops the deal was done, the rate unchanged. Negotiating B&B and V(ino) Tuscan style

Over the next few days, the pains of defeat where generously salved with fresh eggs and the occasional glass of vino bianco fresco from the cask. And I find that with each cork I liberate from the Orcia Rosso, I am beginning to feel better about my routing.

Late breaking news: After the bill was settled this evening and we were enjoying dinner on the panoramic view balcony, she came to our table and asked to take away out empty wine bottle. The best we could make our of her rapid-fire Italian was that she wanted the empty vessel for this year's production. Instead, much to our delight, she returned with our bottle filled from the cask and a sing-song "arrivederci" to bid us farewell. It was enough to restore one's faith in humanity.

On other fronts, we have been happily diverting ourselves here by chasing the summer concert circuit on offer in the open-aired paizzas, parks and even ancient Roman ampitheatres throughout Tuscany. Last Saturday we saw ex-Talking Heads lead David Byrne in the 2500 seat Roman ampitheatre in Fiesole, 10 km uphill from Firenze. A fantastic 10 out of 10 show with wonderful musicians, dancers and coreography. Really, how often do you get to see a dancer leapfrog over the head of the featured musician in mid-guitar solo? (Blogistas will recall my confessed love of Talking Heads late last century). On Wednesday, in the Fortezza Medicea in Arezzo, we saw the American folk-rock singer Tracy Chapman perform before a 5000 person audience in a more conventional North American- style festival setting. A good show but only a 6 out of 10 here - marred by little communucation with the audience and a distinct bossiness towards her three piece backup band. What was most surprising to me was to hear her squeaky, scratchy conversational voice - a stark contrast to her robust alto singing voice.

Off to other parts of Tuscany tomorrow in advance of our return to the city of light and magic (Paris not Langford!) on Friday.

Ciao for now!

Firenze Frenzy

Buono Sera blogistas - and a warm greetings from one of the world's great cities - Firenze (or as we choose to "dumb down" its name in English, Florence). Patty and I have been here for a few days and are finding that a city that initially appeared to be muggy and crowded has easily set its hooks into us in no time at all. If one is a true art lover (which I must confess I am not), I can well imagine intending to stay here for a few days and then extending for a month.

Firenze, at the height of the Renaissance in the 15th century found itself in one of these rare times and places in history where a convergence of human energy and spirit unleashed an unparralled explosion of art and culture. Some of the true giants of Western civilization were at work here in this city over at the same time - including Michelangelo, da Vinci, Galileo, Machiavelli and Bottecelli. As you walk around these streets with art on virtually every corner, one wonders what must have flowed in the air and water of this place to give birth to the intellectual floweriung that Firenze cultivated during the Rennaisance. One can imagine the jousting of these major players, bouncing ideas off of each other and rising to the challenges of their competitors' work to bash boundaries and push fornteirs. It helped, for sure, that there were major benefactors in place, such as the Medicis, as well as lesser lights who sought to define their status in society by commissioning a pianting here, a sculpture there or a chapel in their church. I often wonder if the people who lived here at the time knew they were in the middle of one of these rare global epicentres. Have we seen the likes of 15th century Firenze since? Paris in the Enlightenment of the 18th century perhaps. And one wonders if we will we see its likes again in our contemporary XBox culture?

That's enough for all of these weighty questions. As the "If not now, when?" tour de monde enters its last few weeks overseas, Patty has re-christened it the "It is only money" tour. We are doing a commendable job burning Euros in Firenze's lether and clothing markets while drowning our cah flow sorrows with some fine Chianti. We have also added a new twist to the Tuscan cultural tour and have decided to rent a car and chase all and sundry pop and jazz acts as they converge on Tuscany's delightful festivals in various piazzas and Roman ampitheatres over the month of July. It is time for some true confessions here - one of my favourite acts of the "new wave" era was the Talking Heads. Last night, in a 2500 seat, 2000 year old Roman ampithetre in Fiesole "uphill" from Firenze, we saw a fantastic concert by Talking heads-lead David Byrne accompanied by some very talented musicians and dancers. On Wednesday, we are heading to Arrezo to see Tracy Chapman in conecert (for all of 15 Euros a ticket). Four days later, in Lucca's main square, we hope to see John Fogerty, leader of what Rolling Stone magazine called the "greatest garage band in the world" - Creedence Clearwater Revival. And this is just a selection of what is on offer in these parts over the next month with acts including Stevie Winwood, James Taylor, Chick Corea, Keith Jarret and Joe Jackson - all of whom are playing at ticket prices considerably below North American concert fees. I am sure we will enjoy these shows - again, with great apologies to our children who might have been expecting some sort of inheritance.

Ciao Bella

Suntanning in the Powderkeg

Greetings all - the "If not now, when?" tour has now disembarked Dubrovnik. We have been successful, by and large, in our quest for the idyllic Adriatic town we were looking for in our last post washing up in the charming, walled island town of Trogir about 30km up the coast from Split. The tourist invasion is in full flight here but we are learning how to beat it back every day, waging battle marble laneway by cobblestone path in our temporary pied a terre.

As I ponder this daily battle, I am reminded that a mere fifteen years ago real war was being waged in these streets. We are, after all, within the famously unstable Balkan powderkeg. I have toured many battlefields in my time but none as recent as these. Those pockmarks in the ancient walls of Dubrovnik are not the product of centuries of erosion. They were blasted there by mortar shells in the 15 month seige of Dubrovnik by the "Greater Serbs" in 1995. The photos on "The wall of martyrs in the Craotian war of independence" in Trogir are not the sephia tones of WW Two portraits but yearbook style photos from the late-disco era. By my count, seven countries now occupy the frontiers of what we once knew as Yugoslavia. The most recent was added just last year as Kosovo declared independence from Serbia. A few hundred km up the road from Trogir is Sarejevo where the tripwire that plummeted the world into the Great War of 1914 was sprung. A few hundred beyond that is Szebernica where sanctimonious western leaders who defiantly vowed "Never again!" after the holocaust of WW Two turned a blind eye and let Slobadan Milosevic execute the worst ethnic cleansing in Europe since taht war - just a few years ago.

I stand to be corrected but I sense that the Balkan powderkeg countries collectively constitute a smaller population than Canada"s. Applicatioons for membership to the EU are flying right, left and centre in the hopes that acceptance will legitimize the smallest of territorial claims and cement fledgling democracies in place. But how long will this last until the next Tito or Milosevic rears his head and plunges this part of the world into another explosion with the fleets of yachts and legions of suntanners evacuating from these parts as fast as possible. I, for one, do not fully understand the origins and contours of the last Balkan war (who does?!?). But I hope for the sake of the locals who still bear the immediacy of suffering, we all find a way to ensure that it does never happen again.

Cheery thoughts from a Balkan beachtown.

The Consequences of Accelarating the Itinerary

Greetings all from beautiful, sunny and, for the first time on our trip, oh-so crowded Dubrovnik, Croatia. Yes, the summer tourist season in Europe is in full-flight and has run into us with a vengeance. We now find ourselves dodging massive tour coaches full of Floyds and Ethels from Birmingham and Boston and lunging past their compatriots as they photograph up a storm while blocking the drawbridge to the old town.

As we now pass into the last month of the overseas phase of our tour and find that we are accelerating our itinerary to an almost "If its Tuesday, it must be Belgium" mode. In the past 6 days, we have been in 3 quite different countries - Turkey, Hungary and now Croatia. And I know when we are, perhaps, moving too fast when:
- I have lost my capacity to rapidly convert currencies - perhaps the only thing that was truly keeping my mind sharp while helping mitigate the impact of over-refreshment on the delightful red wines the last three countries have on offer.
- We go to pay for our morning Americanos with a pocketful of change representing at least 4 different currencies. I have given up remembering the origins of the various florins, kuna and lipa that jangle in my pocket - choosing to refer to them all as rupees for simplicity.
- My limited competency to utter even a few passable phrases in the host country"s language has apparently dried up completely. Although, I was amused to find that the Hungarian word for "Hello" appears to be pronounced "See ya" - go figure!
- My darling wife and ever-so-patient travel companion tried to take my Swiss Army knife to my admittedly weathered Eddie Bauer travel shirt. She was only fended off by a threat of no evening gelato and a promise that I would discard this shirt (as I have discarded about half of my wardrobe so far).
- I called this place "Budrovnik" this morning.
- It took me three days to discover that the locals here do not even call their country "Croatia". It is, in fact, called Hrvatska. This begs a larger question as to why we don"t call countries by the names they are given "at home" - Deutschland, Nippon, Sverige et al.
- I have had it with trying to navigate my way around yet another čšđł§!!! computer keyboard and figure out how to cut and paste text and transfer photos in full-Turkish dialogue boxes.

Well, this can only mean one thing - time for another of our famous week long "vacations-within-a-vacation" - a time honoured tradition on this tour which we plan to deploy again this week at a yet-to-be uncovered but surely idyllic place somewhere on the coast of Croatia. And then we begin our slow march northwards - sailing to Italy and then making our way back to the city of light and magic from where this wonderful adventure began for our return to Canada.

With a pat on my own back for typing "y" as a "z" on this Croatian ,or is it Hrvatskan, keyboard as has been required throughout this posting and apologies for not being able to figure out the apostrophes, best wishes to all. Now off for the promised gelato in this, the last outing for my wounded travel shirt.

Breakfast from the Balcony

Greetıngs all-another bulletın from our fast-movıng tour of Turkey where Patty and I have achıeved an almost spırıtual state of reverse ın our day-to-day ramblıngs ın and around Ayvalık.

Our day starts not too far from home as we purchase breakfast from our fırst-floor balcony wındow. Almost everywhere you turn ın Turkey, you can be tempted wıth fresh 'sımıtzıe' - large sesame coated, toasted bagels. These can be bought from street stands or from one of a troop of mobıle 'bagel boys' that ply the laneways of Ayvalık balancıng a tray of sımıtzıe on theır heads. At about 7:00 a.m.,we hear our local bagel boy makıng hıs fırst approach through the neıghbourhood, hıs melancholıc call - 'Smıtzı-en, Smıtzı-en' echoıng through the twısted maze of the lanes below. Hıs call blends ın well wıth the ambıent noıse ın our 'hood - the muezzın's mornıng call to prayer, the ımprobable grınd of tractors tryıng to navıgate the narrow laneways, the regular chorus of chıckens, goats, cats and, as noted ın an earlıer post,the lovely toll of the church bells precısely on the hour, twenty-two mınutes late. The bagel boy's fırst call sıgnals a quıck trıp to the kıtchen to put the kettle on. I return to our room and lay out the requısıte cutlery and condıments needed for breakfast that I have set out the nıght before. I take my posıtıon at the grated gable of our bedroom wındow and waıt.

A few mınutes later, on hıs second approach, the bagel boy sees me and makes hıs way over to a stable footıng on the steep lane beneath our wındow. Wıth almost yogıc precısıon, he fully extends hıs arms to lıft hıs tray far above hıs head. I pıck out two fresh smıtzıe, warmed perhaps more by the mornıng sun than the oven, and leave a coın on hıs tray ın theır place. Thanks yous are exchanged and I bıd the boy farewell -'Smıtzı-en, Smıtzı-en' The water ıs now boıled,the tea and fresh lemon ıs set and breakfast for two fresh from the wındow can be served. Now ıf I can only fınd a sımılarıly entrepreneurıal lad wıth a mobıle and cobblestone-ready cappuccıno cart, our day would really be off to a grand start as breakfast would be ready wıthout havıng to leave our room or even open our door. Applıcatıons currently beıng accepted c/o Poste Restante, Ayvalık, Turkey.

The Muezzın and the Infıdel's Bells

Patty and İ are having another one of those delightful 'vacations within a vacation' in which we have come to excell – now takıng up temporary residence in the charmıng village of Ayvalik on Turkey’s north Aegean coast. Our days are as pleasant as the Aegean waters vivid in their aquamarine blue. Challenges are gracefully few - mostly associated with trying to understand Turkish - both the language and the keyboard (some evıdence of the latter challenge may be evident here - öçşğöş!).

Several tımes a days, the calm serenıty of Ayvalik is shattered ın cacaphony - by clockwork, both figuratively and literally. Ayvalik is in a regıon of Turkey that is burdened with a turbulent history. Muslims and Christians had co-exısted here, uneasily for centuries, living in a cauldorn that often boiled over, fanned by the flames of religion and nationalism. İn the years following WW1 with Turkey on the losıng side, Greece made its last serious push to secure this area as its own. In Ayvalık and İzmir to the south, enclaved Greek Christian populations formed the anchor for the Greek claım and, as such, became the targets for retributıon by Turkish nationalists. İn the mid-1920's, after much blood had flowed in these now peaceful streets, an awkward resolution of sorts was forged. Turkey agreed to dispatch a few hundred thousand of 'its' Christians to Greece ands Greece would send an equivalent number of 'ıts' Muslims to Turkey. Beneath the veneer of this elegant diplomatic solution lay scores of broken families and hearts and the fearful sorrow of dislocation for those wrenched from their homes and forced to emigrate to a foreign land. Ayvalik's Christian churches were all converted into mosques - sometimes wıth the simple addıtıon of cınder-block mınarets and the removeal of pulpıts, pews and a cross or two. Yet several decades later, a relıgous conflıct seemıngly settled on the ground appears to have been launched anew ın the aır.

The mosque nearest our pensıone ıs a converted Greek Orthodox cathedral. Its 20th century mınaret now looms above the cathedral's 19th century bell tower whıch, lıke the church, was decommıssıoned ın the 1920s. As prayer tıme was the only tıme that really mattered, there was no apparent need to dıstract the faıthful wıth the worldly sıgnallıng of the hours of the day. Several tımes a day, a Muslım muezzın calls the faıthful to prayer, hıs mournful call broadcast from the mınaret roughly 15to 20 mınutes after the hour. Unlıke the majestıc calls to prayer I heard thunderıng from the magnıfıcent mosques of Istanbul, thıs one sounds 'phoned ın' - broadcast over a scratchy PA system wıth some peculıar phone dıal tones punctuatıng ıts end. And thus the good cıtızens of Ayvalık demark theır days. That ıs untıl last year when ıt was decıded that the cathedral's bell tower should be refurbıshed and brought back to lıfe.

The return of even a lımb of the 'ınfıdel's' Chrıstıan church must have caused no small anxıety among Ayvalık's predomınantly Muslım populatıon. But the wheels of commerce and the gentler roll of tourısm both turn on the hour. Perhaps a call to prayer could not adequately pronounce the openıng of banks or the departure of a ferry. Thus, soon the peal of hourly bells once agaın fılled the Aegean skıes.

Now Turkey ıs, to me, a surprısıngly modern place where thıngs work and work well. And thus ıt must have surprısed many, especıally the suspıcıous Mohammedans, when the bell clock began to slıp behınd schedule. It could have been that thıs lag started wıth only a few seconds a day. However, the gap between actual and 'bell' tıme now appears to have settled at around the 15-20 mınute past the hour mark. For example, the 5:00 p.m. chıme now peals out at 5:18 - and so sews the seeds of conflıct coıncıdıng as ıt does wıth the mıddle of the muezzın's call to prayer. As the muezzın waıls out over the scratchy statıc of the mınaret's sound system. the Chrıstıan bells peal out from the bell tower beneath hım - ınterruptıng hıs call wıth ıts dıscordant remınder that ıt ıs now at least 20 mınutes past the hour. On one occasıon, I observed that only 4 bells were rung out to mark 5 o'clock (or 5:20). Off beat and a few seconds later, a fıfth bell was mysterıously rung. A forgetful mıstake, perchance? Or another clever tactıc to cause further dıstractıon and ınterference ın the mıdst of the muezzın's call?

It seems to me that thıs sıtuatıon could be easıly resolved. A sımple, mechanıcal recallıbratıon between clock and bells could return the chımes back to the actual hour where they should be. Alternatıvely, a further fıve mınutes of lag could be ıntentıonally programmed ınto the clock so that the bell peal would be placed comfortably after the muezzın had fınıshed hıs busıness. Regrettably, my extraordınarıly lımıted command of Turkısh ın a communıty where very lıttle Englısh ıs spoken may prevent me from unravellıng thıs mystery on sıte. However, sınce there appears to be lıttle threat of thıs aerıal conflıct escalatıng on the ground as ıt mıght have done a century ago, I am happy to leave the questıon hangıng - that ıs as long as I don't mıss my 5:15 boat because the muezzın somehow prevaıled and drowned out the ınfıdel's 5 o'clock bells.

Dazzled between East and West

Greetings all - the 'If not now, when?" tour of the world has taken a bit of a backtrack from our short respite in the UK and we have now washed up on the historic banks of the Bosphorous in Istanbul, Turkey.

And what a delightful surprise is this place. I had always envisaged Istanbul in an exotic, Orient Express-type of way full of slightly off-centre Peter Lorre-types festooned in fezes, vests and striped baggy pants, puffing on water pipes at small cafes while exchanging the illicit secrets of states. Some of this is, indeed, preserved today - well, at least the water pipes are. However, what I have found here is a very charming, fresh and modern city - clean and bright, proud and confident. Istanbul famously straddles Asia and Europe. But in 2009, it is distinctly facing west more than east, actively nurturing its European side and courting entry into the European Union.

Few cities in the world can boast the splendour of this place. In one square kilometre of the Sulthanamet area in the city's histoirc centre, there are three of the most stunning sites in the Western/Eastern world. The Sultanahmet Camii - a.k.a 'The Blue Mosque" - is an astounding feast for the eye, rising on a mount in Istanbul as if it is itself a mountain surrounded by blue-capped foothill domes, marked on its skyline by its six minarets. It is a greedy landmark begging constant attention. Just in case you were not looking at it, four or five times the mournful wail of the muzzein rings out from its minaret spires with a Muslim call to prayer (beginning, I can reveal at 4:18 a.m. to be precise). It is a truly magnificent place. More than anything, perhaps, I was struck by the lack of security in this shrine. No bag search, no metal-detector scan greets the visitor to this holy Muslim site - only a request that women shroud their heads (shawls provided), you take your shoes off (bags provided) and that all visitors behave in a respectful manner.

Staring across a park from the Blue mosque is the massive dome of the Aya Sofya - a building dating back to the 6th century BC with a very colourful past that reflects the cultural mosaic of the city and country. It was first built as a Byzantine Christian church when Istanbul, then Constantinople, was the centre of the holy Roman empire. Next it became an Islamic mosque only to be reverted to a Christrian church by the Crusaders in the early 1200's - their crusader crosses scrawled over Isalmic mosaiced icons clearly in evidence throughout the church. After a second career as a mosque during the Ottoman days, the building was secularized in the early 1920s by Turkey's modern day god, Kemal Ataturk and is now a musuem. For almost a thousand years, the Aya Sofya was the largest enclosed building in the world and its massive domed roof must have been even more stupendous a site to its earliest visitors than it is for today's.

Next door, set in a lush urban park, is the Topkapi Palace the home to the Ottoman sultans when they ruled much of the middle-Eastern world in the middle of the last century. Its richly mosaiced and (in)famous harem forms the centrepiece of attention for most tourists today. I was more taken by its outstanding collection religous relics - hairs from Mohammed's beard (to accompany those that I saw in Delhi), the skull and arm of St. John the Baptist, Moses' staff - each representing strong threads in the multicultural weave that forms the fabric of this historic city. Throw in some wonderful parks, Roman cisterns with their underground catacomb waterworks, the ruins of a Roman hippodrome replete with ancient Egyptian and Greek columns and, I submit, you have quite a show within this small patch of land.

We very much enjoyed the company of my sister Gail and brother-in-law Glen (mistaken for an Australian footballer Chibo) as we explored the markets, streets and waterways of Istanbul. All along the route we encoutered the most friendly of people. Istanbul's massive markets are as loud and colourful as they get and yet the merchants are remain generally laid back, happy to chat with you and serve you a glass of apple tea while trying to sell you on the merits of the carpets or pottery on offer. When compared to the aggressive touts we encountered in India and Africa, these merchants are real gentlemen. Today, Patty set off to have a gold chain repaired. When we presented it to a jeweller in the market, he noticed the chain bore a Christian cross and St. Christopher's medal. He quickly opened his shirt to show us his pendant with cross and then whirled into motion to get the chain repaired. An assistant was dispatched to another location for the repair while we were served tea in the shop. Ten minutes later, the assistant returned with the chain repiared and freshly gold-soddered. When Patty offered to pay, her offer was politely refused with a friendly smile and an exchange of best wishes. For a city of almost 15 million people, Istanbul is sparkling clean and bright and well ventilated by sea air. And yes, the beer (Efes Pilsner)is tasty and cold and the local wines surpisingly good.

Mark us both as now officially curious about this country which we hear so little about at home. Tomorrow, we are setting our compasseses south down the Aegean coast in search of a nice village we can hole up in for a while as a base for further examination of what Turkey has to offer.

Neseye (Cheers!)

Reconstructing History circa 1963 ... AD

Greetings all from Cambridge where Patty and I are continuing our oh-so-civilized wandering around the UK. In an earlier dispatch, you may recall my curious ponderings about "what is "old" - reflecting on the opportunity I have had to see things that can be dated in the millions of years rather than centuries. This week in England, in both Liverpool and Haworth, I have had cause to reflect on this question from another perspective - asking myself when should we know that something is worth preserving before we risk handing it over for renovation or the wrecking ball.

On Sunday afternoon, I quaffed a pint in a dark, subterranean bar that now bills itself - with much gravitas - as the "most famous club in the world". I think most would agree that this place has strong qualifications to stake this claim. The Cavern Club was the pulsing heart of the Merseybeat in the early 1960's and the one place that can legitimately lay claim to being the birthplace of the Beatles. The Beatles played here almost 300 times and the threadbare stage at the Cavern saw many performances by the Rolling Stones, the Who and countless other storm-troopers of the British invasion. Almost half a century (ouch!) later, the Beatles nostalgia business is a huge part of Liverpool's economy and it is hard to escape the ubiquity of the Fab Four. And yet the Cavern Club in which I enjoyed my (highly overpriced) pint isn't exactly the one at which the Beatles served as the house band for so many gigs. In the 1970's, it fell into disrepair and renovation into a disco (shame!) was seen by its owners as the only option for its salvation. One would have thought that in the 1980's, in the second decade after Sergeant Pepper's, it should have been apparent to any reasonable watcher of 20th century culture that the Beatles were more than a passing fad. Perhaps the stage on which they truly launched their amazing rise should be preserved as a cultural shrine that could be visited by future generations - not just the present ones. Instead, with a now-failed disco on its hands, the owners decided to gut the Cavern and in-fill it to form the base of the construction of a seven story building above it. Then sometime in the 1990's, the light must have gone on. The excavators where called in and the arches that so distinguished the Cavern were unearthed. original bricks from the building were recovered from the in-fill and used to reconstruct the club with additional reinforcement being built in to hold up the new building above. Mathew Street , in which the Cavern is located, was declared a municipal historical site (can UNESCO Wold heritage status be far behind) and several historical markers and statues erected to commemorate the Beatles story in its earliest days. And yet even now, with so much reconstruction having taken place, there seems to be a great debate about where the Cavern was, in fact, located. As far as I could determine, there are at least three contenders for the entrance to the club - one that tries to back its claim with scratchy photographic evidence pointing to the end of the queue for club patrons by a dimpled stone that can still be seen a few feet above street level. Moreover, the reconstructed Cavern now is about 2/3 the size of the original and the stage is a model refabricated from photographic history.

I came away feeling that what I had seen was no less than a modern day archaeological reconstruction of a palace of culture - but this time it was my culture, contemporary culture, something that stretched back to 1963 AD not 1963 BC. The reconstructionists at the Minoan palace of Knossos in Crete or the Ellora caves in India, both of which date well back into the AD period, must have also speculated about where the palace entrances had been drawing on the best available evidence, sketches and arguments just like those used now to validate the entrance to the Cavern Club.

The important question in my mind is when do we determine whether we should take the risk to preserve a site that we can safely bet will be an important historical monument in our times and culture? When do we put pressure on the owners to conserve and not renovate or redevelop these sites - or, worse, submit to the wrecking ball? What other historic sites in rock'n'roll have been preserved for the future and which ones now might loom under the wrecking ball as we ponder these thoughts. I am aware that the Sun studios in which Elvis recorded his first records is now a museum. But what about the original Motown studios? Or the Bottom Line in New York where Bob Dylan first drew notice? Has a public crusade been mounted to preserve these sites - or has a well-heeled benefactor swooped in, bought the site and dedicated it to posterity for public enjoyment.

The latter option crossed my mind a few days after leaving Liverpool when Patty and I spent a few days in Haworth in Yorkshire. Here one finds the well-preserved and protected home - which the Bronte sisters wrote some of the great works of 19th century English literature. In the mid-1920's, at a time of apparent transition in the use or ownership of the Bronte parsonage house, a wealthy Englishman took the preservationist risk and bought the property and dedicated it as a public museum for posterity . A society dedicated to the preservation and enhancement of the Bronte sisters was formed and now almost two centuries after "Jane Eyre" and "Wuthering heights" were written in that very house, there is little doubt that this cultural shrine will be safe from the wrecking ball for a long time to come.

Perhaps more of our future archaeological digs will be focused on unearthing the sites and history of a few decades rather than millenia ago. Or will we continue on in our ways and watch these places disappear while singing "I Should Have Known Better"

Culture Shock - Reverse

Greetings all - With the exception of two weeks in "first world" enclaves in South Africa, Patty and I have been in the "third world" for almost 7 months. "First" and "Third" worlds are controversial labels that conjure up all manner of generalities and unfair comparisons. However, it took me less than a day to recognize the profound differences when we fled India and arrived in the UK on Sunday.

Now safely holed up on the wonderful Pembrokeshire coast of Western Wales, we are both unpacking our experiences while unpacking our bags for an extensive laundry treatment!. We are in a small coastal village called Porthgain - a former slate quarry port now thoroughly gentrified to cater to weekend escapees from London. We are having fun with the tongue-twisting lingo of Welsh place names and find ourselves, strangely enough, located between "St. Elvis" to the south and the "Preseli" hills to the north. The contrasts to last week are startling and many. On Saturday, we were sweltering in the heat and commotion of Delhi amidst its 15 million inhabitants. Yesterday, on a five hour walk on the coastal trail, we saw fifteen people. For the first time in months, we are wearing fleece and raincoats and loving every second of it. The extent of contrast can be reduced to the welcome and simple act of opening a tap, pouring a glass of cold water and then drinking it -something we have not been able to comfortably do the better part of half a year. I have seen grinding poverty and humans reduced to beasts of burden - women smashing rocks to make gravel, Nepalese porters shouldering unbelievable loads, cycle rickshaw drivers in Delhi facing the sledgehammer 40 degree+ heat. I have experience and learned to tolerate disgustingly filthy hotels and public "conveniences" (Squatters? just say NO!), waded through more garbage and cow shit than I will want to remember and suffered the stinging eyes and ratcheting throats brought on by the extraordinary pollution in places like Kathmandu and Delhi.

And yet there is much I will miss - about my Third world experience. I will miss:
- the sense of joy and pride manifest in people who have nothing.
- the hope and determination, against all odds, to meet what we would consider in the West very limited aspirations for one's life and labour (As Paul Simon said " One man's ceiling is another man's floor").
- the simple, unadorned and genuine friendship offered to strangers who find themselves in very foreign settings and cultures.
- fresh mangoes for a dollar a dozen!
- the fiery passion about sports - football in Africa, cricket in India
- at the slightest instigation, the unabashed public eruption into song, dance and music - from the wondrous singing in Lesotho to the clatter of temple bells and chants in India and Nepal.
- the profound and multi-faceted spiritualism that you see everywhere, every day in India - from its cartoon gods to the moving worship of a river as a lifeblood for a people - the Ganges.
- the dramatic and tortured interpretation of the English language - topped by the colourful lingo of the Indian media
- the proud struggle to conserve and enhance natural assets where the funding required to do so is so much in demand for more urgent social needs - the Serengeti in Tanzania, the Annapurna circuit in Nepal.
- Cycle rickshaws weaving bravely in a swirl of road traffic (safely said now that we have survived all of our trips in these vehicles)
- the carnival atmosphere in Indian trains - with their ever-changing on-board "markets"
- monkeys galore! - a pest to most but a constant source of amusement to me
- unabashedness about sleeping in public in the hot,hot afternoons
- the sense of sharing from people who need all they can get and the demonstration that one can live with a whole lot less in life - even if this is by necessity rather than choice.

A shortlist indeed to which I invite others to add. Now off for a fine Welsh pint (another distinct First world benefit!)

Currying Favour among the Masses - Election Indian-Style

Yesterday, as British Columbians went to the polls to elect a new government and decide on a new system of voting, I found myself trapped in the Indian Himalaya city of Nainital. By trapped, I mean stuck inside this hill station town surrounded by army roadblocks unable to leave for our next destination some 250 km away. Inside the city, armed police guards were staked out at strategic points and road junctions carefully observing milling crowds to ensure no disruption of order. The reason for this display of force - Civil insurrection? A terrorist threat? None of the above, I was assured as I was welcomed to Election Day in India.

Over the past several weeks traveling throughout India, I have been fascinated by watching the world’s largest democracy cranking up its creaky electoral machine into action. With over 700 million eligible voters, India’s national election takes three weeks and five phases to complete as each of India’s 29 states goes to the polls in a staged approach. Yesterday was Nainital’s state of Uttarakhand’s turn in the last day of national voting. The Indian media has, of course, been thick with election news mostly focused on possible alliances to form the next coalition government rather than the campaign promises of dozens of federal parties. As Canadians grow perhaps warily accustomed to a minority government at the federal level, this result is not even in question in India. That there will be a coalition government is a certainly. All that remains to be known is how it will be constituted and who will lead it. Previous Indian governments have featured coalitions involving over 20 parties from right to left – including a few species of Marxist-Leninists who remain alive and well on the Indian political landscape.

There have been campaign promises, no doubt. One popular campaign battle has been waged between India’s two major parties – Congress and the BJP – over the price of a kilogram of rice to be accorded to each individual by quota. Congress was first out of the gate with 3 rupees ($0.07) per kg. for 25 kg of rice per person only to be trumped a week later by BJP’s promises of personal quota of 35 kg of rice for 2 rupees per kg. Both parties have evidently concluding that the quickest way to an “X” on the ballot is through the Indian stomach.

The high security around Election Day has been aimed at preventing what the colourful Indian English media calls “miscreants and agitators” from violently disrupting elections as has been witnessed in the past. Security concerns are a primary motivation behind the rotation of the election throughout the country so the army can be deployed from state to state. Our hotel had the good fortune – or misfortune – to be located across the street from one of Nainital’s two polling stations. The already impossibly narrow road was choked with tables of party workers clustered under the colourful pennants of their parties surveying voters’ lists in their respective efforts to “get the vote out”. Indian voters lists appear to contain a lot of personal information including voter photos taken from Indian National ID cards, making potential supporters easier to target as they stream out of the hills to the polling stations. The polling station itself was protected by several armed officers and, without a national ID card, I was not allowed to get anywhere near the action.

The results of the election will not be known until mid-June. Accordingly, the media has focused on voter turnout, electoral drams in individual ridings and, prominently, the presence of Bollywood stars at polling stations. Mumbai, India’s financial and media centre, voted in the first phase. The day following the poll, the media lamented that for a city that within the past six months had experienced both a devastating terrorist attack and the heavy impact of the global economic meltdown, the pathetic voter turnout in the mid-50% range spoke to an inexplicable apathy to the democratic cause. I noted that voter turnout in this range would cause no small amount of envy among Canadian democracy advocates. Some states registered over 70% voter turnout in their polls.

The election has caused me to reflect, once again, on what we Canadians take for granted in our democratic processes. When was the last time we had to worry about armed forces providing security to protect right to vote and our individual journeys to the polling station? How comfortable would we feel voting in the shadow of armed police guards? “Never” and “not at all” are the answers. Yet despite the police-state feel of the process and the disruption caused to my personal travel plans, the Indian election is surely a thing of beauty when one considers the scope and size of the effort needed to allow Indians to cast their votes and their energetic response in a mammoth expression of democracy.

An India Gallery

Liz drowning in silk in the Varansi market - Wow!

Ian happily meeting up with a Canuck Fan (in the old "Flying V" colours!)

The Sub-Continental Express - Adventures in the Medical System Chapter Two

Greetings blogistas from blissfully cool Nainital - an old British hill station high up in India's Himalaya foothills. thanks to all who e-mailed me with sympathies and "get well soon" wishes in response to my recently-reported savage attack by a Buddhist temple ornament in Nepal. I feel all are deserving of the second (and hopefully final) chapter of my explorations of sub-continental medical systems - namely, "Stitches out - the sub-continental Express".

This past Saturday, my stitches were scheduled to come out. Saturday found us in Agra, India - home of the stunning Taj Mahal (talk about exceeding expectations - this surely is the most beautiful building on earth - perhaps only rivalled by Maple Leaf Gardens - enough said!). Our driver Raju found us a small hospital in central Agra with allegedly English-speaking staff. Patty and I entered at about noon and braced ourselves for a full flight of Indian bureaucracy (Have you ever wondered where the world's supply of carbon paper wound up?). Instead, we did not even have a chance to sit in the crowed waiting room before we were escorted into a small operating theatre. The stitch-removal process was clearly not going to be the subject of the same level of public viewing and participation as experienced in the Nepalese suturing. I was laid out on a hospital bed and then attended to by first one, then two, then ultimately a team of six doctors, interns and nurses. Amidst a lot of English-free pointing and grunting, bandages were torn off, stitches pulled out, antiseptic and bandages placed back on and best wishes extended by the entire team. We then were whisked out of the room, back to the front desk and then, surprisingly, out of the with a wave of bobblehead nods from the staff - no registration, no forms, no carbon paper, no fee - total time expired = 15 minutes! All appears to healing nicely. I have certainly learned my lesson about hanging out at temples with bad attitudes.

Back to our Indian adventure. We are now a team of four voyagers having been joined by our children Elisabeth and Ian who arrived in Delhi on April 27 - bagged and baggless - for a three week trip. A baggage reunion was achieved the next day - the same day that Delhi performed a magnificent welcome for us all as it set the 50 year heat record of 43.5 degrees C. After a shopping blitzkrieg through Chandni Chowk and Ian's efforts to watch the Canucks-Hawks semi-finals on streamed internet, we set off with our car and driver for Agra and then points east. We have just spent three days in Varanasi - one of India's holiest cities and India's claim to the longest continuously inhabited place on earth - clocking in at plus 3000 years. On the banks of the holy Ganges, Varanasi is full-on India - pouring with colour and chanting, home to hundreds of temples and wandering barefoot sadhus, tumbling with cheeky monkeys and clogged with cows and goats and their easily-stepped in "gifts". Our hotel sat perched on top of the Scindia ghat, one dozens of stepped quays that descend into the Ganges. From dusk to midnight, the Ganges in Varanasi is a hive of activity. Here Indians travel from around the country to perform ritual plunges in the holy river. Children swim and play in it to beat the heat. Water buffaloes wallow therein beside laundry being thwack, thwack, thwacked on river bank stone platforms. At night, the river is a colourful scene - set ablaze with floating candles set in small flower boats. Set aside the fact that the river itself is seething with garbage and apparently starved of oxygen at near-morbid levels of toxicity. Evidently, this does not matter to anyone - its holy status trumping all such worldly problems. Most moving without doubt was the Manikarnaka ghat - the so-called "burning ghat" - located about 100 metres from our hotel. Here Hindus bring the corpses of their loved ones for cremation followed by a scattering of ashes into the river. Women are draped in red or saffron shrouds and men in white - all heavily garlanded with flowers. Funeral processions - some 200 a day - wind through the choked, narrow streets of the old city to the ghat. The shrouded corpses are dipped into the river and then set alight on wooden fire pits lit from a flame that has allegedly remained burning for thousands of years since it was ignited by the Hindu god Shiva. These processions served as useful navigation aids for us as we tried to figure out how to get back to our hotel through Varanasi maze. Varanasi is a very moving place which reverberates throughout in a spiritual tone. It should be an easy entry for any one's A-list of places to visit in this wondrous country.

Namaste all

Stupa-fied in Bodhnath

Greetings all from this ever-so blissful Tibetan Buddhist monastery complex of Bodhnath on the outskirts of Kathmandhu. Bodhnath is home to one of the sub-continent's largest stupas - the huge vanilla ice cream cone-topped Buddhist shrine adorned with multi-coloured skirting, prayer flags and capped by cartoon-like eyes gazing out at the masses. With throngs of very laid back maroon and saffron robed Tibetan monks (a large proportion of which seem to be on cellphones at any given time); incense wafting everywhere, butter candles flaring - a very magical atmosphere. In the evening, the locals swirl around the stupa (five minutes per circle) spinning prayer wheels and chanting mantras. It is quite a divine feeling to be swept up in this centrifugal force of faith.

Yesterday, we visited the Kapan monastery about an hour hike outside of Bodhnath. Amidst the very peaceful gardens with its spectacularly vibrant stupa, we could have easily stayed all afternoon. However, my contemplative tour ended suddenly when I was attacked by a piece of loose grill work bordering the stupa. Thereafter followed by my first and hopefully last encounter with the Nepali medical system. (My mother should stop reading this at this point!). The attacking stupa fence had left me with a good three inch gash in my right leg and a commendable flow of the red stuff suggested a visit to the doctor was in order. After a taxi back to town, we were directed to a doctor's office above a pharmacy just outside of the compound. The surroundings were spartan - not to mention anti sceptically suspect. The walls were free of any of those comforting adornments one takes for granted in medical offices these days - such as any evidence of framed medical degrees etc. By the time the doctor arrived, 6 patients and consorts where in the office. The doctor attended to them all in open conference with ample opportunity for all to hear about the various pains and ails of each other no matter how personal. When it came my turn, the doctor surveyed the gash and pronounced that stitches were in order. As he prepared his weaponry in a hopefully sterile kidney shaped tin, I braced myself for the suturing in full view of the other patients - lending a new definition to the term "operating theatre". My leg was ceremoniously hoisted on top of a fragment of garbage bag and the proceedings commenced. The administration of the local anaesthetic caused so much grimacing from one observer that I was tempted to suggest that the doctor give her a dose as well to relieve her pain. The stitching thread itself reminded me of old fishing wire - apparently dissoluble sutures are still to make their appearance in 21st century Nepal. At one point, the doctor's assistant (who also doubled as the pharmacist downstairs) disappeared and one of the awaiting patients had to be pressed into action to unroll some cotton gauze for the doctor. Fortunately, there were so many colourful distractions outside the bedside window on to the dusty roads of Bodhnath that I was able to escape pain - goats tethered to the tops of taxi cabs, members of the twenty-something Euro-hippy tribe riding atop rackety old local buses lurching down the pothole filled streets. When all was done, the good doctor wrapped up his materials with a discourse on his 30 years experience - perhaps he detected some doubt in his credentials in my grimacing. After thanking the other participants and bidding farewell to the audience, I limped off back into the dusty streets. For the record: waiting time = 20 minutes; Cost = Doctors fee - $8.00; Operating material and post-op pharmaceutical supplies - $12.00; the experience -priceless!

After this traumatic experience, an early cocktail hour was determined to be in immediate order. Patty and I spied a sign outside the Cafe du Temple advertising "Movie Night". We went in and inquired what movies were up for viewing and were shown several less-than-inspired Hollywood action flick DVDs. Having been among the few people on the planet who have not yet seen "Slumdog Millionaire", I asked the proprietor if this film might be available for viewing. In most Western countries, this question would pose an insurmountable challenge as Slumdog's DVD release date is likely months away. However, in Intellectual-property challenged Nepal, such problems are mere trifles. In twenty minutes, mid-way through our first frosty Everest Lager, we were advised that the film had been sourced, loaded in the screening room and ready for viewing . Eating dinner on the leather couches of the screening room with a fine flat screen TV and surround-sound theatre system, we watched the film. For this effort, film, dinner, drinks and (this time) well-deserved "service charge" , we forked over a princely $17.00 - which I observed was less than the price of two theatre tickets in Victoria.

By the way, I thought the book "Q+A" on which Slumdog is based was better than the movie - but the movie holds up very well. And while I am on to matters literary, I have to tell you that I have just finished one of the best books I have ever read - Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children. It is the type of book that is a literary feast to be read/eaten slowly and savoured in pieces. It not only won the Booker prize in the year it was published, it won the "Best Booker of the Bookers" prize in a rating of the first 25 years of Booker winners. My only problem with the book was my copy of the book itself - a cleverly-photocopied knock-off so prevalent in Indian booksellers. In this case, some pages showed evidence of toner shortages and an unkeen eye at the photocopier left some of the margins wafting perilously close to the far extremes of the pages. A new hardcover will be in order on my return home.

The next chapter of the "If not now when?" tour of the world opens in Delhi on Monday when Patty and I will be happily re-united with our two children (yippee!!!) for a three week "Fam-holiday" through NE India. I expect a fair amount of this vacation will be dedicated to trying to find a good satellite TV feed to the Stanley Cup playoffs. (By the way, is it true that the Leafs and les Canadiens won exactly the same number of playoff matches this year?) For now, "Nameste" to all from marvellous Nepal.

Conquering the Teahouse Trek

Greetings all - I know you have been waiting with baited breath to see if we survived our 6 day journey on the "Teahouse Trek". I begin by making three observations:
1) The "Teahouse Trek" belies its genteel name and features many stretches of tough slogging - mostly in the upward direction. We climbed to 10,750 feet over the first two days and then spent most of the next four days dipping up and down a few thousand feet from this range in what I might characterize as a "What goes up must continue to go up " mode.
2) We had done absolutely nothing to prepare for this trek - a point that hit us in one of those "a-ha" moments about half way and one cramp through Day one (ouch!)
3) Unlike most of our companions on the trail, we're not 25 anymore (ouch!, ouch!).

However, every slog, ache, loss of breath, rain, hail and even snow was amply rewarded by the most magnificent vistas onto some of the world's highest mountains. I am used to seeing mountains in Canada like the Rockies whose peaks loom high on the horizon. The Annapurnas are giants that tower way up above you sometimes seeking camouflage in the high clouds.We enjoyed spectacular views of two the the world's top ten mountains: Dhaulagiri (No.5) at 26,800 feet and Annapurna I (No. 10) at 26,300. In addition to the other 3 Annapurna mountains, we had great views on Maccapuchere (a.k.a Fishtail Mountain) one of Nepal's holy mountains that dominates its valley much like the Matterhorn does in Zermatt (only 6,000 feet higher).

The trail, surprisingly, was mostly "paved" with slate stones and steep steps - some which have been there for hundreds of years since first laid as trading trails and pilgrimage routes to neighbouring Tibet. We must have climbed tens of thousands of steps over 6 days. The trek passed through dozens of hamlets pinned to the sides of the mountains - generally bright and cozy places with hundreds of prayer flags snapping in the wind and the occasional Buddhist shrine. There were, generally, 4-8 guesthouses to be found per hamlet. Rooms were basic (in some cases approaching basic) - a good enough bed to support you as you collapsed after 8 hours on the trail, a table, an electric light (fed an occasional electricity service which, in fact, was generally more dependable than Kathmandhu's!), shared bathrooms with the occasional hot shower if the gods were smiling on you. Double rooms cost between $4 and $8 per night. Each guesthouse had a restaurant often serving guests at one large table from a very Westernized menu of pastas, pizzas with fried rice and Nepalese set "dal bhats" (Lentils, veg and rice)thrown in to keep us honest. All guesthouses had a store stocked with those essentials which we cosseted and comforted Westerners cannot for a moment be without - potato chips, chocolate bars, cigarettes, pop, cold beer - all of which ported up the mountain not by donkeys but by human beasts of burden labouring under the most incredible weights. Not large in stature, we watched Nepalese men haul baskets full of goods and baggage on their backs - head down to the trail and weight braced by tump lines to the forehead. One porter carried 5 flats of pop - 24 cans to the flat - up a steep incline, a load I could not carry from my car to the front door. Trek porters hauled two "hockey" duffel bags strapped together with a backpack horizontal on top - easily 50kg of baggage some of which was likely quite useless in respect of the needs of the trek - moisturizers, laptops, extra books etc. With the understandable exception of the available cold beer, it was enough to make one feel very guilty about our material and consumptive ways. Beer prices increased about 20 rupees per 1,000 feet by my carefully documented observation. Even so, at its most expensive, a chilled 630ml bottle of Tuborg could be had for $4.50 - less than the bar price of a bottle half that size in Victoria. Yak cheese was also widely available.

Despite being Pringles-provisioned throughout, it is easy to slip off the grid on this trek and venture back a few centuries. We saw a fully operational stone grinding water mill and watched local women grinding wheat on large slate grinding stones. Millet harvested from terraced farms was thrashed with bamboo switches to separate the chaff and filtered through hand-woven straw sieve baskets. Along the route, we saw lots of pure grinding manual labour as well as hand crafting of baskets, mattresses and blankets that were destined not for the tourist trade but for everyday use. And along the trail we had to jostle our ways around donkey trains, cows, water buffaloes and the occasional yak in order to proceed along the way. We hiked through lush rhododendron forests and were treated to several dazzling waterfalls. Our disappointment at not seeing a Yeti was compensated by a wonderful array of raptors sailing the mountain thermals and huge Chinese windmill butterflies with arced tails dancing around alpine flowers.

Our trek began at the road head and Nayapul about 30 km west of Pokahara and took us through Gorephani, Poon Hill, Tadapani and Tolka. Our favourite day was Day 4 when we alighted upon the hamlet of Jinhudanda and got to end our day by soaking in glorious hot spring pools lying against a rushing alpine river under the towering gaze of Hiunchili and Macchapuchere. We exited in Phedi mid-day on Day 6 - weary but with a warm feeling of accomplishment.

We returned to Pokhara and set off immediately for a three day yoga retreat at the Sadhana Yoga centre, beautifully set in the hills overlooking the town and lovely Lake Fewa. Where the yoga sessions soothed many aches from the trek, they created many more - so we've descended back to Pokhara and booked ourselves in for some ayuervedic massages tomorrow. We will be rubbed up and down in a rather unique venture - the volunteer-driven Seeing Hands Massage Clinic where visually-impaired but tactile-sharp Nepalese are trained to become licensed massage therapists We're next heading to two towns near Kathmandu - Bhaktipur and Bodnath, the latter to visit the large Tibetan monastery. Then back to India towards the end of the month to meet our children for a much anticipated three week "fam-holiday" in Northern India.

I suspect that it will be hard to match trekking in the Annapurnas for a long time to come. I'll try to post some pictures in the near future.