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.

Kathman-doodling

Stuart pronounces favourably on Everest Lager - far superior to India's vapid and fizzy Kingfisher

Patty consulting a newly "made-over" Stuart on our next steps

Day 5 and feeling definitely stuck in Kathmandu. We are awaiting our departure tomorrow a.m for a 7 day trek in the Ghorepani-Ghandrok area of the Annapurna Himalayas. This trek is sometimes called the "Teahouse Trek" - which, admittedly, doesn't have the spine-chilling ring of excitement as the "Everest Base Camp" climb - but, as noted earlier, I didn't bring the right boots for the Everest climb!. The weather is fantastic in the mountains at the moment and the hike promises many fine views as we hike through rhododendron-blooming forests and even take in a hot spring or two. Stay tuned to this page for further news.

Even though we were amply warned, Kathmandu is a surprisingly crowded (2.2 million population) and very polluted place. The toxic brew of too many motorcycles and the high altitude delivers a sting to the eyes and rasp in the throat that mimics an allergic reaction. Patty and I have borrowed a habit from the locals and have taken to wearing face masks around town to try to limit the effects. Notwithstanding the smog and noise, there is plenty to do and see here. We've spent a lot of time exploring Buddhist temple complexes in Kathmandu and surroundings - including nearby Pathan where we were treated to a rather gruesome temple sacrifice of three buffaloes. The Nepalese have adopted a clever but unwelcome fundraising ploy - tagging tourists for entry permits to old parts of the city and relieving you of $5.00 for the pleasure of walking around with un-paying locals and dodging cars, motorcycles and an army of street hawkers that ply the cobblestone roads throughout these ancient areas. I suppose this is all tolerable if the Nepalese do as they say and use these proceeds to maintain and preserve their UNESCO World heritage sites (a good first step here would be to ban vehicle through traffic in these sites, I suggest). In addition, there are often temple monkeys en site to keep you amused with out charge (beyond pitching the odd banana their way).

As an update on the differences between Nepal and India posted earlier this week, I am pleased to report that Nepalese beer is far superior to India's ubiquitous Kingfisher. Everest Lager is my thirst quencher of choice at the moment. I should also note that one can readily acquire passable French Pinot Noir in the stores here - good wine being as scarce as an honest price from a street hawker in India. With our trek now delayed a day by roadblock protests by yet another Maoist splinter group (not to be confused with the original Maoist splinter group that now forms the government and from which this splinter group splintered from), another bottle of Pinot Noir may be in order for cocktail hour. This would constitute the only "red" I would choose to support today.