Leaving on a jetplan. . .

So here I am at an Internet Centre in New Delhi before I take off and leave behind a world of crazy spices, laughter and so much warmth that I'm overheating.

I've never been received by so much kindness in my life. In the past couple weeks, I've drank enough chai (with generous servings of sugar and milk, of course) to support an entire tea plantation and enough food to last week till the end of summer - technically. One kid asks us to their home and then their friends wants us to visit too. A typical chai visit consists of a drink appetizer of orange Fanta and then the main feature chai along with biscuit and salty snacks (namkeen). A recent visit also included samosas and sweets (molassy melts-in-your-mouth squares called bassin). Most of our chai visits are conducted in a mix of simple Englih, Punjabi and expressive hand gestures. As most of the parents do not speak English, most of the time, we sit silently, looking at each other with awkward smiles. Our program day ends at 7pm and then we go straight to one child's home before returning home to cook and eat AGAIN.

We also attended a friend's wedding and had a farewell party at our home ending with good-bye gifts and a dance session of bhangra music. The kids at school have also been giving us gifts from the kitchiest fake flowers to bright and glittery bedazzler type bracelets and gigantic colour radiant earrings with the ability to reach one's shoulders.

Recently, the biggest achievement of my Indian life is surviving under the Indian summer heat. Never having experienced temperatures close to my own body temperature, living in constant sweat with fans (when power is available) that recycles hot air is unimaginable. To battle this heat, my body produces a constant film of slime at all times (more often with a lack of power to generate the fan) as I breathe, walk, sit, sleep etc. Very unpleasant when waking up in soaking clothes and the shadow of sweat pools in the early morning! Sweating through shirts and pants is a common phenomenon. . .

Next stop from the Delhi airport is Hong Kong where the temperature is ~33c, but this time the weather calls for rain. . . can't wait for home!

Ode to the Indian Eve

Eleanor Roosevelt once said that a woman is like a teabag, the longer she is put in hot water, the stronger she gets (paraphrased). It seems truer than ever for most women of India. For the delicate gender that drops out of school earlier and at a higher rate than the men of the country, girls are brought up learning how to make perfectly round chapattis, move around gracefully in their Punjabi suits and/or saris, bargain for the best deals at the market and to be second to the men in their lives.

Women generally marry by their early twenties to a husband in an arranged circumstance to live happily ever after in stability – meaning good rupees. The time between meeting their betrothed and the wedding can happen in a matter of weeks. After the elaborate and expensive wedding, come the expected children who the women are responsible for raising. During the day, she stays at home cleaning, cooking (roti after roti) and if she is well off, napping and watching TV.

However, the fortress of the home, roti maker, house cleaner, child carer, is not seen in public as often as men in India. As foreigners, we are almost a half-gender, being excused for not wearing our Punjabi suits everyday, and going out to public places greatly dominated by men. These places include restaurants, movie cinemas and public transportation such as trains and buses. In Goa beaches, the only locals found in their shorts are Indian male tourists. Women generally do not go into the water unless they are fully dressed (saris, etc). Generally, Indians do not swim (may not know how), but they enjoy splashing themselves and lying by the edge. The men seem to gravitate towards foreign tourists in swimsuits, an activity that is part and package of their holiday. . .

In the busy urban centres, there are more progressive families, but in general, love marriages are rare and arranged marriages are the norm. Matrimonial online sites are getting popular and there are entire thick sections in the newspapers dedicated to finding a marriage partner divided into class, language and caste, although if you do not have such expectations, you get 25% off your ad. At weddings, the bride is not supposed to smile or else it shows that they are happy to leave their family (to move to the groom’s). And as she is whisked off from the marriage palace, she has tears in her eyes.

On the other hand, Indian Eves are not always so submissive. Unlike in villages, New Delhi and Mumbai, for example, can find more women (mostly younger) who do not wear traditional garb. In line-ups waiting to buy train tickets, some women push up to the front of the line to demand that they buy their ticket first. They can be very tricky especially when you are not looking and the next thing you know, your place has been taken. Once on a bus, I got up to allow an older woman to sit beside me and the next thing I knew, her friend had squeezed in to take my seat also! Fortunately, another seat was free behind mine . . .

On my final week in India, I’m a mix of emotion, mostly from my village experience. You can find more travel photos from me here.

Finding Nemo (or Allah, or Vishnu, or Buddha, etc.)

I've discovered during my stay here that unlike the non-committal North Americans with their watered down Chinese New Year celebrations or Mardi Gras, Indians are intense with their religions. Spirituality may be another matter but there are signs, signs everywhere are signs or religious fervour. Instead of Buddhist temple after temples in China/Japan or church after church in the tourist route of Spain or France, there are a smattering of Hindu temple after Muslim Mosque after Buddhist temples after Jain temple after Catholic churches after Sikh Gurdwaras here in this diverse country.

And no, the many religious places are not just half-assed wooden crosses at the back of a building or stone statues of the local Hindu Monkey god. They are elaborate shrines lovingly designed with mirror mosaics, multi-designs of chandeliers or painted in the likeness of the insides of a cow. Fragrant roses, lilies and tropical flower chains adorn creative carvings of revered gods, framed with glowing candles, next to offerings of coconuts with paan leaves and sweets. Indians are serious about religion. In Goa, the second question we were asked from a local server was “Are you Christian?”

The influence of Portuguese traders and settlers in the South of India including Goa and Kerala, where I have returned from holidays, left Catholic and Christian edifices dating from the 16th century around these parts. Hindu temples dedicated to local gods are everywhere with frequent rituals performed sometimes by participants that spill out into the streets. Along some Indian roads are mini shrines big enough to fit one of two people with statues of Hindu gods (or a giant cross in Kerala) where truckers and pedestrians can leave flowers and offerings with prayers as they pass by.

These practices of religion may be a means of fulfilling emotional and/or physical (financial material) needs of India, all 1.1 billion living under Gandhi’s Independent flag. Buddhism and Hinduism offer believers a chance to be released from suffering, and to attain nirvana. To achieve this level, there are meditative practices. The book I’m currently reading “Eat, Pray, Love” says that praying is the act of talking to God, while meditating is the act of listening to God. Perhaps the whirlwind, urban and materialistic lifestyle of the West doesn’t give most of us time and priority to search for the romantic notion of spirituality of religion, organized or otherwise.

No wonder the Hippy Revolution of the 60s found Westerns rejecting the White Anglo-Saxon Protestant mentality flocking to India to find spirituality. Well – if they don’t go home with spirituality, they can at least bring back flower chains from a Hindu ceremony and deadly weed. . .

The I Factor

Since I’ve arrived here, I’ve learned one thing: anything is possible in India. Things happen beyond (or just different from) expectations through a phenomenon called the Indian factor, the infamous I-factor.

My trip to Himachal Pradesh bordering the sharp and breath-taking Himalaya Mountain range showed me why this is so. We visited Dharamsala, and the city of McLeod Ganj where the Tibetan government and community in exile reside. Then we headed over to Manali honeymoon capital of India with the majestic snow mountain as a backdrop. Overall, the scene of the white and blue mountains reminded me of the North Shore Mountains in Vancouver, the extension of our very own Rockies.

At the beginning of our journey we boarded the bus from Hoshiarpur to Dharamsala by fighting our way through tightly knitted Indian crowds. Before I was able to even sneak a peek inside, a man told me to purchase seats so I went on a search for tickets. When I returned to the bus, my friends were still half-seating and arguing for a spot. The locals apparently didn’t know that there was assigned seating and were soon turned down by the conductor. Later, we saw people scrambling for seats on another bus by throwing their bags onto seats through the window as the bus was parking so they could claim the seats upon boarding.

McLeod Ganj was itself a surprise as we felt that we were magically transported out of India and dropped off at a backpackers’ resort with great service and menus that met all the appetite needs of foreigners. Most of the locals were Tibetan or Kashmiri or Nepali – Indians were a minority. This was perhaps a non-I factor.

On the way to Manali, our i-adventure truly began with an overnight bus ride crammed in seats made for two skinny third-graders - we try to tuck our legs to secure ourselves. And then the driver stepped on the brakes. The noise was unforgettable – like the screech of a million seagulls in symphony with intense grinding of metal against metal. As our road took us through hills and winding turns, the bus braked once and again. The bus, dramatically swaying its tail left and right, pulled passengers from side to side. Passengers like me, half perched at the edge by the aisle, I was lifted out of my seat perilously, almost falling into the dangerous aisle of heavy bags and other passenger’s feet each time. To secure myself, I had to hold tightly onto the handle bars directly in front of me throughout the 11 hour journey into the night.

Then we arrived in Manali, where newlyweds start their lives together, where they get to know each other after their brief meeting at their engagement and wedding. The toilet in the honeymoon suite given to us was a hybrid one giving users the hard decision to sit Western style or squat the good old-Indian way. The romantic Hot Springs in nearby Vashisht was so hot that you can only dip your toe in or say a special mantra before going in and out. Most local prefer the shower method, where the water can be adjusted by showerheads by the pool. Other Manali attractions included skiing at the mountain base with no ski-lift. 80s style snowsuits and faux fur were available for rent, hard hat helmets not included.

Looking forward to more I factors to come. . .

Village People

“Che-lo, Che-lo,” we say to the children. Like always, they are reluctant to leave the afternoon activities but eventually follow us towards the gate of the government school giggling and whispering in Punjabi. They grab our hands to shake them time and again. “Hello, bye!” they repeat to us, some heading home by bicycle. Most of them walk with us to our home, pointing at buildings and puppies to teach us Punjabi vocabulary. After a month of interaction with the children and youth of Sotla, we feel like we know them although we may not know all their names; from the mischievous nine-year old girl with the short hair who insists on leading outdoor activities to the older boy who cannot let go of the ball in dodgeball games.

We have been preparing to set-up a VIKAS (development) Centre in the village here and testing out the concept at the Sotla Pilot Centre. Bringing along Western summer camp games to teach them basic English, we mostly communicate through gestures when we are without interpreters. They are familiar with their favourite games now and we have just started introducing computers to them with four laptops. We’ve had almost 100 participants come through our “centre” and we are now thinking of way to sustain the centre and how to start provide full-service through programs to the villagers.

There are a few migrant families who relocated to our village from Eastern India to look for work. One of these families has five children, ranging from age 2 to 11. The parents sent the children to the government school in the past but they always returned home and the parents have given up on sending them. Perhaps they find the material difficult or because they are afraid of the teacher. We’ve been encouraging the children to attend the after-school programs that we are initiating but the oldest child, an 11-year old girl has to take care of her 5 and 2 year old siblings while her parents worked in the field. Initially, she wouldn’t come because she had to stay home to care for them. But now, she brings them along.

Initially, Indian time (aka. it will happen at some time. . .) had prevented us from diving straight into the work here, but things are now slowly taking off. I’m looking forward to the marketing and planning work that I hope to accomplish while I am here.

Outside of work, village life had proved to be enjoyable and comforting especially after traveling in hot, polluted cities for days. The fields of green and the tranquil, slow-paced life is comparatively relaxing. Predominantly an agricultural society, Punjabi villages are surrounded by field, worked by farm labourers and landowners. I was invited to my co-worker Jinder’s village where she proudly showed me her land with sunflowers, corn, wheat, sugar cane, spinach, mustard greens, eggplants, mint and coriander among others. Her family owns cows and buffalos that she milks and takes care of everyday.

Dairy is easily available in the village and are consumed as is. Milk from either cow or buffalo is rich as cream, used in curd, lassi and milk straight into chair. Sugar is also liberally used in the diet as is oil when making chapati and butter in dahl. It is the way to gain “healthy” weight although I hope I won’t bring back excess load through customs on my return. . .

To see some of my experiences so far, check out:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=107012&l=e32e6&id=604205042

Buses, Trains, and Autorickshaws

Oh the places you will go! And the ways that you will do it! With both familiar and unfamiliar modes of transportation in India, there is never a dull moment especially when a fraction of the 1.1 million inhabitants of this country travels along with you!

My adventures on the buses here so far mostly consists of three buses between Chandigarh and Sotla village in the Hoshiarpur region of Punjab. First bus between Chandigarh and Hoshiarpur, and then to Dosaraka, and then to Sotla. At the bus stand can usually find your bus by hearing the destination shouted by the ticket collector "Chandigarh, Chandigarh, Chandiga-arh!" Before the ticket collector asks for your ticket or the bus fare, non-travellers sometimes hop on with you, including vendors for pens and young girls holding a piece of paper instructing you to give them 15 rupees. Along the highway, buses ring out their distinctive horn as they speed along, with random breaks during long rides (6.5 hours, Chandigarh - New Delhi).

In crowded buses, I've seen a woman who boarded carrying a bright pink baby's walking. As she was left standing, she shoves this big contraption into the arms of a total stranger. He carried it until the end of her journey. One of the interns saw women who shove their own, precious live and kicking babies into the laps of strangers as well!

Train rides are another story, with my own experiences limited to overnight trains, I am only familiar with sleepers with bunks. Without pillows, we shiver seeking sleep. In the morning, around 6am, people walk through the narrow corridors announcing their wares "Cha-aaai, chaa-aaii, chaaa-aai". Other vendors hop on beckoning potential customers as they join the passengers from various stops. When we arrived in Rajasthan, we even had a couple musicians come in with their drums, playing lovely Rajasthani music and singing. Of course, they look for top bucks for their performance. People from other walks of life find their way to the trains as well including a couple with stumps for legs. I remember reading about those without legs and the groups of beggers who work together. I remember that I do not want to support this activity and that no mater how generous, I can never feed all the poor in India.

Autorickshaws are new for me. I was told they have similar in Thailand called tuk-tuks. Three wheeled "put-put" that runs on diesel, more like it. The drivers of the covered vehicle pulls a chain and it sparks to life loudly like a rusty lawnmower. We start to bargain and are always charged more that locals. They always pay 10 rupees, and they start trying to get our business with 100. After the destination we ask "kit-ne?" to get a price and bargain down until we pay close to the locals, when possible, depending on how far they have to go. In New Delhi it's not possible, but it is more reasonable in Chandigarh.

As for cycle rickshaws, I personally do not life to sit uncomfortably under intense sun and heat or during the night totally exposed to any dangers. The cycler is usually small and pedals hard as he carries the weight of the heavy cart and its passengers, sweating profusely.

I am off again as I type this in the computer room of our hostel in New Delhi. Tomorrow we depart for Agra where the Taj Mahal awaits. More on this later. . .

Animal Kingdom India

The highlight of my trip to Rajasthan included a camel safari with an overnight stay by the sand dunes of the Thar desert under the star witnessing the cloudless skies filled with stars, sun set and sunrise, eating chapatis and curries cooked under the shade of fresh green deciduous trees. We visited the grand forts of the Rajputs in the blue city (houses with blue to repel mosquitos and keep cool) of Jodpur with its English style clock tower, and Jaipur, the pink city, famous for elephants.

I've encounted animals in both urban and rural settings. The urban centres are of course crowded with the throng of humankind, bustling, eating, selling and selling their wares. Camels pulling carts, buffalos pulling carts, donkeys pulling carts. As one meanders through busy street side, goats nibble at mounds of garbage stashed at the side of the road. I also saw a boar gnawing at a pile of garbage in Jaipur.

Cows seek shade anywhere they can in the city and eat chapati fed to them by people. They are taken care of a bit more - and I wonder if they are indeed holy cows. Sometimes horned buffalos/cows unexpectantly fight each other as I jump away. I saw one with flowers in its hair. Dogs bark everywhere, some homeless, many hungry, some protective of their puppies. Just like humans, animals in the urban jungle vie for their livelihood in chaos and competition with each other. On the tops of temples overlooking busy streets, monkeys with bright pink bottoms stare down at you curiously.

In the village, buffalos are also present, except they are kept in stables, waiting to provide milk to the villagers. It tastes like homogenized cows milk after it is boiled - add a bit of curd overnight and you get Indian yogourt to dip and eat with chapati or bananas. Every morning I hear crows caw with their grey necks, pigeons also. Dogs also live in random corners here, lying lazily in the shade on hot afternoons.

Village Life. . .

is far from the urban conveniences that we are used to, like internet, like reliable electricity, like reliable water supply, like warm showers. Cows and dung cakes used for fertilizer are usual sights. It really gives you a global perspective to see where most of the the world population (although most is moving to urban centres) live. The green green fields is refreshing to see (many villages in the Punjab state are farms) and so are the kids who are excited to learn and play.

It's definitely very calm here, but during the day, there are hours when there is no electricity. Makes you think about our power and water consumption in the city. The only disruptive part of village life, the noisy part, happens at 4am when the Gurdwara (sikh temple) starts saying a prayer throught the loudspeakers and travels throughout the village. This wakes me up and I don't sleep until the prayer stops. this morning luckily, the power went out and the prayer only lasted for 1 hour instead of 2. There are three temples in the village and services two times a day (~4am and ~6pm).

We are planning for the set-up of an education centre here and did a site-tour of the local promary school where the education centre will be. As we await for our own kitchen, we are being provided food, mostly chapati (bread) morning, lunch and inner (~9pm) with yogourt (curd) as well as lots of sweet sweet milk tea before and/or after meals.

After a couple days in the village, we are heading to travel to Rajastan. It's a different region and a touristier environment. . .will tell more later.

Arrival. . .

After 14 hours on a plane from Vancouver to Hong Kong and 6 hours from Hong Kong to Delhi I arrive to honking taxis and buses in the middle of the night. The roads are awake on the way to the bus station. On the way there our bus driver honks at every station as well as every large vehicle with swirling red and green letters at the back urging drivers to "Please honk". Each vehicle seems to have its signature tune. The bus doors open and close, vendors hop on and off, the driver turns up the Hindi music at the helm with white flower chain framing a picture of a famous figure. On the way, seas of autorickshaws and bus vie for the road, street side food stalls and outdoor barbar shop reminds me of China.

5.5 hours later, we arrive in the middle of the morning at Chandigarh. The roads are clean with beautiful green street islands which private vehicles, buses, taxis, autorickshaws and bicycles share. At the bus station, rickshaw and autorickshaw drivers follow us. Daksh, who came to pick me up, shakes his head. "Neyhi," I learn to say. I'm sure the first of many to come.

I will be moving to a village for the most of my stay where I will be based for my work.

Warming up the Ol' Passport

Over 3.5 years ago, my old passport was just finishing off her rounds in South Africa and Asia, literally on her last legs. The border officers at Mozambique were nicely bribed (with a wonderful smile, of course) to let me through with a passport that had less than 6 months left until its expiry date. I returned home with her to enjoy some retirement days back in Vancouver. Now, a new and untouched passport with an unsmiling mug shot is coming with me while I head off to a new adventure - back to the Old World - this time to India. The day of departure is less than one month away - I hope we will get along great.

I've often dreamed about visiting this country with its rich culture and spice markets brimming with bright yellow turmeric and pungent curry. I imagine colourful cloths and flowers on displays, and crowds of people on the street, similar but strangely different from China. I can almost hear the sounds of street vendors, selling in a different language, and Bollywood songs from radios.

Yes - I'm excited. I aspire to withstand the heat in the following months. I aspire to eat good chapati and wear flowers in my hair. I aspire to keep you all updated as you sit at the edge of your ergonomic computer chairs through this magical thing called blog. . .

The World of Office Life

No longer unemployed and travelling, highlights of my life include drama at the workplace. . .

The recycling company we stopped using three weeks ago appeared at our doorstep on time and without being beckoned. We used to call them to do a pick-up when the recycling bins overflow and they give us false hope that they will arrive. They only do so after a few days. When they come, they have big bins filled with heavy items knocking against the walls and leaving shredded paper along the stairs. One of the pick-up guys arrives this morning with clear plastic bags, and leaves the blue bins downstairs.

After a speechless moment, I utter: "We already called to stop the service."
"Oh good" (!??) On his face is a big relaxed grin.
"Good because you don't have to lug the heavy bags up and down the stairs or good because you are losing our business?"
"Oh, you don't have to worry about that. We've got lots of business." (beat his head)
"Didn't they tell you not to come here anymore?"
"You were on our list today."
"Well - that's good that you came." (Because they never used to come even when we were on their list)

I bet they received training to make a great impression after a customer drops them, and to emphasize that it's "good" we left the company.

But wait - there was a romantic part too. A woman at the office had commented in the past that this particular man was good looking. But now she blatantly denies this. Enough office intrigue, back to work.

Drifters
(What I remember from my last travelling stint)

The moving belt of the brightly lit counter displays a variety of pastel bowls and plates carrying seaweed stuffed sushi and cones with colourful ebi, tamago and unagi. Watching hypnotically as the food pass by, I almost forget that I’m not in Vancouver – I’m in a Japanese restaurant in the heart of Shanghai. I pull my gaze from the food and notice Chris grinning at me from across the table. We’re sitting together because we’re both Canadian and we’ve been travelling around China together with some others we met along the way for the past week.

When we first meet on a train heading to Guilin, Chris’ eyes brighten the moment I tell him that I am Canadian. But I soon realize that other than carrying the same passport, we don’t have much in common. A waiter arrives with a ceramic bottle and cups on a tray and pours everyone at the table strong hot sake.

Chris is from Toronto. He went to cooking school straight from high school and has been working in the food industry for almost ten years. Starting out as a sous chef, he soon found himself at one of the most prestigious resto-bar in town, serving many local and visiting celebrities. As the head chef, his responsibilities include thinking up eclectic fusion dishes that are fresh and exciting. Recently, he broke up with his girlfriend of six years and decided to take time out to travel.

“I used to want this picture perfect settled life and I really lived that for several years. Then I just decided that it’s not what I want anymore,” he explains.

Starting off his Asian journey in Thailand, Chris then moved onto China, and will next hit Australia, where he plans to find work in a restaurant for the next year and then possibly back to Canada.

“But I haven’t decided yet,” he says, happily stabbing his wooden chopsticks into the sticky white centre of his salmon roll. “I’m just going to see what happens.”

At that point of my life, I am heading home to Vancouver to re-establish my life after a couple more weeks in China. Suddenly, Chris makes the sound effect of a chicken we had seen a few days earlier, interrupting our thoughts and we laugh. He is forever the clown and jester of our group. But at times, he also brings up the topic of Buddhism and different cultural practices he witnessed in Thailand.

Heady with rice wine, we gush about our fun travels - the freedom, the food, the adventures, and the scenery. At the end, we agree that we all thrive on learning and discovering new things. Looking at everyone, it struck me that only a small advantaged percentage people from developed nations including Canada could afford to not work for an extended amount of time just to explore a new world.

“I can just travel forever,” somebody says dreamily.
I wonder what forever means and how that could be possible.
“That’s the life of a drifter.” Chris interjects, chewing thoughtfully. He raises his small cup at everyone.
“To being drifters,” he announces suddenly.
“But I’m not a drifter,” I protest.
They laugh. “You are now.”
Everybody clinks their cups against his and turn to me, waiting. I hesitantly lift my cup towards them.
“To life.” I say simply.

40 000 confirmed dead today. millions hurt.

I want to cry, and whole world as a unit of humanity should mourn and embrace our brothers and sisters in that area of the globe. I feel so helpless and so small. Why are we so lucky in the north? This time, the disaster is not one triggered by humankind such as warfare or bombings and we cannot point fingers.

All the mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, husbands, wives in the world, may we treasure every moment. I want to reach out and hold their hands. . .

I've been back for a month and have been contemplating the notion of travel. You meet people of similar background as you when you travel because they are the ones who are - like you - priviledged enough to earn enough money to buy an air ticket and be idle (no working) for the time they spend on the open road. Yes, it's the big dollar bill grinning straight at you. (That's interesting, when I first typed "big", I typed "buy" instead. . .same, same but different?) All the Northern countries of the first world going off to explore the world, be it on Scandinavian farms, tourist havens on African coastal towns or on rugged mountains overlooking Chinese gorges. You can easily meet British travellers clinking beers at a foreign pub, Germans ordering schnitzels from menus, Americans chowing down on a Big Mac or sipping a Starbucks latte.

Countries that were once considered poor and second/third world have a burgeoning middle and upper class who are able to immigrate and travel. Chinese from the Mainland have been arriving into Canada at a high rate for the past few years and with the economy newly opening up to welcome new tourists and merchants, people are able to afford travelling outside of the People's Republic of China. I was on a Southern China flight from Kunming to Shenzhen and browsed through a magazine. There was an interesting fact that stated that the top reason why Chinese tourists are travelling is shopping! Yes, a once Communist state is going out into the world to discover what it has been missing as its children were growing up deprived of the variety that capitalist countries were able to enjoy and afford.

Going out to see "new" shops may be exciting for Chinese tourists but many of these shops are not as unique as many might like to imagine when they go to places such as Australia, England or Japan. Specialty shops unique to countries and cities are slowly becoming extinct. These days you can find Gaps, Benetton and Esprit everywhere. All chains popular in capitalist states. I watched a film at the Vancouver International Film Festival called Chain that told stories of two women. One women almost lives in a shopping centre. The interesting thing is that shopping centres spaces of her story were filmed in various parts of the world including the USA, Canada and Germany! It could be anywhere in the world, it was so generic. I was taken to The Pavilion, apparently the biggest shopping Mall in the Southern Hemisphere while in Durban and recognized many shops or many local copy-cat ones.

The world is becoming so small. Everything is an airplane ride away. Even South Africa, a country that is probably one of the places farthest away from Vancouver, BC is two flights away. All you need is a way of paying your way there. Meeting people from different parts of the world is wonderful, but it also means that cultures and languages are quickly disappearing into the void. More Europeans can speak more than two languages fluently but how many of North Americans even Canadians who are supposed to have functional French do? We have English and that's all we need to know, we have it easy.

I know it's been awhile. The past month for me has been short but full of continual physical, spiritual and emotional experiences. The ride has been both dense and intense.

I'm home again now, slowly recovering from all sorts of ills. Also, trying to figure out how to empty out photos from my new and exciting digital camera newly purchased from Hong Kong. Let me know if you wanna see my beautiful China pix (Guiling/ Yang Shuo, Kunming / LiJiang / Tiger Leaping Gorge / Dali)!

a la prochaine!

healing hibiscus

OUT OF AFRICA

So I have left the old world but not quite in the new world yet. I'm at my transition point in Hong Kong at the moment. Just arrived early this morning. Haven't planned what to do in HK / China yet. . .

I know I haven't written in a while and this is not exciting read but so much has happened. I have to really think about how I'm feeling and put it down onto paper. Also -- I think I forgot a part of me in South Africa. Gotta go back sometime to bring it back. I might have smuggled a piece of SA with me and gone through customs. ..

Recommended reads for Mozambique

(from the Lonely Planet)

Kalashnikovs and Zombie Cucumbers - Nick Middleton
Covers the colonial era, South African and superpower involvement in the war, and various aspects of the country today.

Apartheid's Contras - William Minter
The Harrowing of Mozambique - William Finnigan
Roots of the civil war

And Still They Dance - Stephanie Urdang
A study of women's roles in the war and struggles for change in Mozambique.

COASTAL PARADISE- in a post-war Mozambique

“South Africa is not real Africa,” they tell me.

I went to Lesotho a couple months ago where I saw rural mountainous regions and its people and I agree with the statement. Last week, I went to real Africa again, this time to Mozambique -- the true coastal African experience. The long queue to get my visa at the Mozambican Consulate was well worthwhile as was the R12 I paid at the border.

The seaside always had a special place in my heart, and the country formerly known as Portuguese East Africa with its scrumptious seafood, magnificent beaches and vibrant culture blew me away. I can talk for hours about brilliant blue skies, sparkling sun-kissed waters and warm relaxing boat-rides on dhows as boatmen pull their full weight into oars to push through quiet seas. Or perhaps you want to read about the dusty copper streets of Maxixe with wild spotted guinea fowls the size of turkeys walking aimlessly like bare-footed pedestrians. The markets are colourful and alive, buzzing with people, noises and smells of pineapples, cilantro, savoury Portuguese breads, fresh seafood sometimes swarming with flies, and the sight of intricate bright colours of traditional cloth called capulanas.

Erica, Noah and I sit at a café in Inhambane after a 7-hour bus ride under the scorching winter sun drinking the local brew 2M when suddenly three kids come along with their school bags and lesson books smiling curiously at us. The next minute we exchange names on a scrap of notebook paper, guess each of our ages, and flaunt our mutual interest at each other. Erica offers them the few Portuguese phrases she learned from Brazilian tapes from an American library. Then they proceed to give us Portuguese lessons, commanding us to read lessons from their school text, so eager to share. Noah, the Ultimate Frisbee thrower, takes out his handy disc and they all gather. Older kids in their early teens join in the group activity and we all laugh over dropped discs until the backpackers shuttle comes to collect us.

We went to the Franco-Mozambican Cultural Centre in Maputo to attend a Mozambican hip-hop show and listen to Portuguese rap. There, I saw three art pieces displayed outside. They are chairs that you'd want to stay away from -- they are made from bronzed handguns. When I was working at CUSO, the Canadian NGO working towards international social justice, I learned about this project called Tools for Arms. After 19 years of civil war, Mozambique is still covered with landmines in various areas. Weapons and arms are still available and many Mozambicans are unskilled because they have only been trained as child soldiers. In exchange for arms from the war, people are given tools such as bicycles, sewing machines and farm equipment. In turn, artists transform these weapons into art sculptures, a gesture of peace. There was an exhibit that made it across the world including Halifax, Canada.

When I rode along the southern part of the country, past dirt-caked African cities, rows of palm trees and tropical vegetation, I wonder where the landmines are lurking. In an African coastal country where tourists encounter developing communities, where many individuals are still unskilled and unemployed, it is not hard to see why Africa is creating a name for itself as a place full of crime and violence. We have so much and most of them have nothing.

A LONG ROAD FROM APARTHEID --- OR IS IT?

Before I came to South Africa, I knew there were two things that characterized it: racism and high crime. I never thought much about how those two factors would affect me, but I am learning quick.

When I plan to walk from point A to point B, I want to be able to do it without interruption, without any hindrance. But no --- my loyal fans are at the side of the sidewalk, smart and ready. Ooh- they holler. Take one look at me, size me up and load up on ammunition. "Hello Chinese." "How are you, China?" and even the infamous Jackie Chan yodel "Hiii-yah!" Some of the comments come with choreographed moves (action figures not included). It's only black males who yell at me. A guy who works at the backpackers tries to explain why this is. "They were oppressed during the Apartheid and now they want to target somebody else." This is no excuse, but understandable. Kinda like kids who have been abused might become abusive to their kids.

The thing I hate about it is that it affects my life. I go to Durban to relax for holidays, but instead, get stressed out because people are hurling rude comments my way as I walk down the street. It's unbelievable. After trying to talk back to them for the 10th time, I figure, why bother with the effort. Locals and foreigners are so surprised when they hear about my experiences. I tell them all the people who holler things are black and male. This gets them even more surprised. "They don't know you're Canadian and that you can understand them," my colleague tells me. "It doesn't matter where I'm from," I explained. "That's just rude!"

When I was visiting Durban, a South African asked me where I wanted to travel to in the world. I told him India. "Well you're in India. But I don't like them Indians because they always stick to their own kind." I got angry and told him "Look around you. Black South Africans stick together and White South Africans stick together. Everyone does it, not just the Indian community." And I know why they stick together. If you are with other people who look like you, they can't holler things at you because of your race. You feel safer. I see that in the Chinese South African community. There is a website for the Chinese South African Assocation detailing their history through the Apartheid system, how sometimes they had to go to Blacks only places and sometimes were allowed to go to White areas.

Racism and crime exist in Canada, but not in such blatant ways. This is ridiculous. Maybe it will take generations to change. Maybe when the New Democracy has matured, 50+ years of freedom will finally put an end to old-skool Apartheid attitudes.

RSA- 2010 World Cup Bid Winner

All I saw were the words "South Africa" as the card was being pulled from the envelope. After that, the crowds erupted and I was deafened for the next few seconds.

15 May, 2004 marked the day on which many South Africans around the country did a lot of flag waving, Vuvuzela (horn) blowing and screaming, and I was there on scene. United by big screens, crowds gathered to await the announcement of the country who would host the 2010 World Cup. It would be the first time that an African country would host the games and South Africa proved that "We are the champions".

I didn't participate in the festivities on purpose- I just kind of ended up there. I was intent on visiting the Museum Africa in Newtown, Joburg that day and arrived to find that the entire entrance of the museum was blocked by a big stage where music concerts would start after the announcement of the World Cup bid winners. We decided to stay since we had driven all that way. Watching the big screen with other face-painted South Africans, I could feel the emotions mounting. I was a bit scared that the crowd would turn mob if SA didn't win, similar to the Canucks riots in '95.

When Vancouver was waiting for the announcement of its 2010 Olympic bid, I avoided any celebration at all costs because of all the controversy surrounding potential social problems that might result. Even though there were groups of people eagerly awaiting a Vancouver victory, protests were happening all over the city at the same time. Displacement of people, potential of debts, unwanted hub of visitors and a pulling of social services funding were just some of the reasons facing opponents of the Vancouver 2010 bid.

I haven't figured out the South African situation yet but from the surface, it looks like an entirely different one from Canada. Being a very new democratic country with a high population of citizens living below the breadline, hosting the World Cup means job creation and money into SA for many people. I have a few qualms about this though. On the radio, the announcer was so excited about job creation ("Can you imagine selling 10 000 hotdogs to visitors and how much money that means?"), but how sustainable is job creation once the Cup is over with only temporary service jobs? With only ten years of freedom under their belt, there has been great efforts in creating a South African identity and the World Cup can help foster that. I was told that the presence of Nelly Mandela, Desmond Tutu, Thabi Mbeki and FW de Klerk in Zurich, boosted the votes in favour of SA.

I can't picture the whole of Canada holding thumbs for a Vancouver victory, but the whole of SA seems to deem this victory as an important one. Strangers were hugging strangers, crowds rejoiced and danced in solidarity. It was strangely emotional in a detached way for me. Then I realized that I was happy for them.

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