For those of you who have been following me throughout my trip but don't have me on Facebook, you can look at the photography work I have done by following this link.
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150359162977819.359043.503562818&type=1&l=49e2489164
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Thursday, December 8, 2011
An Espresso Shot of Reflection
I sit in the Delhi airport with a bittersweet coffee. I use that adjective both to describe the abnormal amount of sugar that is customarily dumped in with the espresso beans here, and because I know that it will be my last coffee in India for some time. Seeing friends, family, snow and broadcasted sports is the sugar in my coffee. Leaving my new friends, my Indian family, the travel opportunities and the culture is the tart beans.
I have expressed to several people in recent days that I feel three months is a very awkward time to stay in a place. If you were to stay one month, you would get a taste of the true culture, you would meet some nice people, you would see the sights, and then you would leave. In six months, you will have comfortably established your life, assimilated into the culture, created long lasting relationships with people, and have felt as though you lived in that place rather than visited. Three months is somewhere awkwardly in between – a pseudo commitment, like the one sided hug, halfway in between the casual briefness of a handshake and the commitment of a vulnerable embrace. This has just recently become like my home. I know how much to pay for auto rides. I know where to shop, what to eat and could efficiently plan a sightseeing trip for someone who visits for a short time. The apartment I was staying in went from a relatively bare place, with nothing on the walls and no food in the fridge, to a homey place with pictures hung and fresh veggies in the crisper. Most of my relationships with the people I have met lie awkwardly in that stage between casual friends and really close friends that I know for sure I would travel to see. It all just feels incomplete, and I think it is for this reason that I struggled so much leaving Tanzania the first time – another three-month adventure.
A great deal of comfort lies in the fact that I know I’ll be back. I really fell in love with India, and there is so much to see still. During my time here I was able to travel quite a bit, but really only covered the Northwest quarter. There are places I need to come back to, and places in other parts I need to see. The only question that remains is WHEN I will return… I guess I should start buying lottery tickets. ☺
Another comfort is the fact that my time working for PHFI is not coming to an end. I was able to rearrange my course schedule this coming term so that I am taking a 6-unit independent project course, in which I can complete my research. My project has provided me with unbelievable learning opportunities and opportunities for advancement in my career path. It has been made quite clear to me by some important people that my project is going to become a big thing, and for this, I am indebted to my supervisors at PHFI for providing me, and trusting me with such a great opportunity. Thank you.
I am thankful for all that made this amazing experience possible, both those at home and those here. A very smart person told me once that you shouldn’t mourn over short-term relationships. Some people are meant to be in your life for a long time, some people are meant to be there only briefly. However, that doesn’t mean that they cannot have just as profound of an effect on you. You should celebrate that relationship for what it was; for all that it gave you, and marvel at the fact that in such a short time, their mark was forever made. And so I leave India very much subscribing to that belief. What a marvelous cup of coffee.
I have expressed to several people in recent days that I feel three months is a very awkward time to stay in a place. If you were to stay one month, you would get a taste of the true culture, you would meet some nice people, you would see the sights, and then you would leave. In six months, you will have comfortably established your life, assimilated into the culture, created long lasting relationships with people, and have felt as though you lived in that place rather than visited. Three months is somewhere awkwardly in between – a pseudo commitment, like the one sided hug, halfway in between the casual briefness of a handshake and the commitment of a vulnerable embrace. This has just recently become like my home. I know how much to pay for auto rides. I know where to shop, what to eat and could efficiently plan a sightseeing trip for someone who visits for a short time. The apartment I was staying in went from a relatively bare place, with nothing on the walls and no food in the fridge, to a homey place with pictures hung and fresh veggies in the crisper. Most of my relationships with the people I have met lie awkwardly in that stage between casual friends and really close friends that I know for sure I would travel to see. It all just feels incomplete, and I think it is for this reason that I struggled so much leaving Tanzania the first time – another three-month adventure.
A great deal of comfort lies in the fact that I know I’ll be back. I really fell in love with India, and there is so much to see still. During my time here I was able to travel quite a bit, but really only covered the Northwest quarter. There are places I need to come back to, and places in other parts I need to see. The only question that remains is WHEN I will return… I guess I should start buying lottery tickets. ☺
Another comfort is the fact that my time working for PHFI is not coming to an end. I was able to rearrange my course schedule this coming term so that I am taking a 6-unit independent project course, in which I can complete my research. My project has provided me with unbelievable learning opportunities and opportunities for advancement in my career path. It has been made quite clear to me by some important people that my project is going to become a big thing, and for this, I am indebted to my supervisors at PHFI for providing me, and trusting me with such a great opportunity. Thank you.
I am thankful for all that made this amazing experience possible, both those at home and those here. A very smart person told me once that you shouldn’t mourn over short-term relationships. Some people are meant to be in your life for a long time, some people are meant to be there only briefly. However, that doesn’t mean that they cannot have just as profound of an effect on you. You should celebrate that relationship for what it was; for all that it gave you, and marvel at the fact that in such a short time, their mark was forever made. And so I leave India very much subscribing to that belief. What a marvelous cup of coffee.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Supportive Railings
The whole of India travels by train. Rail lines constructed by the British span all throughout the vast country, connecting almost all major cities and a significant number of the smaller towns. Based on my observations, the train stations are some of the most crowded places here – a statement that carries weight considering it’s India I’m talking about. In most trains, there are five classes of cars: the three air conditioned classes (1 AC, 2 AC, 3 AC), sleeper class, and a general class. First AC gives you a private cabin with an upper and lower birth and is accompanied by the regular elitist amenities. 2AC has booths of 4 beds, two upper, two lower, that run perpendicularly to the direction of the train on one side of the aisle. On the other side are an upper and lower birth running parallel to the train. . Each is equipped with a curtain and you get a pillow and blankets. The upper bunk is hinged, so that during the day it can be detached on one side to swing down and become a backrest, while the lower bunk becomes the seat. 3AC is essentially the same except there is an upper, middle and lower birth. But, it’s sleeper class is where all the action happens. Sleeper class is the same set up as 3AC, except there’s no sheets, pillows, curtains, AC, the beds are older and a lot less padded, and it’s recommended that you sleep holding your bag. This has been my regular means of travel. Why? Because it costs about 6 dollars for a 14-hour overnight train ride.
Because so many people travel by train, there’s always a wait list for tickets. If you don’t book at least a week in advance, there’s a good chance you wont get a ticket. But, as long as you have a wait list ticket, you can still got on the train (even if its wait list #400). You are permitted to stand/sleep in the aisles near the bathrooms and, provided someone can “accommodate” you, you are allowed to sit in sleeper class while people are still sitting and sleep on the dirty floor of the booths at night. What this really means, is that in sleeper class there is about twice as many people as actual paid tickets, meaning that there isn’t much choice of whether or not to “accommodate”. This is probably the major advantage of the AC classes – your comfort is ensured, as wait list ticket holders are prohibited from entering the booths.
I found this quite annoying each time I travelled. I felt like I had paid for my ticket and bought it on time, why did I have to share my seat with someone who hadn’t done the same. Sure… I could have told them to leave, but that didn’t seem to be the way things worked in sleeper class. I chalked it up as one of those “you get what you pay for” kind of things.
Most recently, I took the train to Varanasi. Overnight Friday night there, overnight Sunday night back: I didn’t want to miss any work. Malik had a little bit more to do this weekend, so he also took the train on Friday there, but came back in the same day with the Saturday night train.
The ride there was a great success. We met some other tourists that I later had dinner with that night. On the way back, it was a little bit of a different story. Because of an unexpected Sunday night traffic jam on the way to the Varanasi station, I almost missed my train. I caught it with about 5 minutes to spare, but when I got to my birth, there was someone else’s stuff there. Normally this would be expected, but I had the upper birth, and normally the wait list tickets cram into the sitting bench made by the middle and lower beds and the upper birth is kind of reserved for the person that actually has that ticket, as it always remains horizontal. The other thing that made it weird was the fact that the guy who owned the stuff was white, and considering the usual travel demands of those in Western society, it was unlikely that he would travel on a wait list ticket that would require him to sleep on the muddy, buggy, urine smelling floor. Naturally I pulled out my ticket, and showed him that it was my seat. He then pulled out his ticket, and we stared blankly for a couple seconds. We had identical seat numbers. So, I went and checked the confirmation list that they post on the outside of the train. It listed his name. I looked down at my ticket only to realize that there had been a booking error – the man who had booked my ticket had put me on the same train as Malik instead of the one the night later. My train had left the night before, and I had no ticket for this one.
At this point, I didn’t really have a choice as to whether or not I was going to take the train – I needed to get back to work for the next morning. Also, because I had arrived late, I didn’t have to option of going to the booking office and seeing if they had any last minute cancellations. I just got on the train with the plan to buy a wait list ticket from the ticket counter. I was going to have to sleep on the floor… for 14 hours.
As the train started to move, I sat down in the seat nearest to the door. A man almost immediately came up to me and told me it was his seat. I told him I didn’t have a confirmed ticket and asked if he could “accommodate”. I had become the person sitting in someone else’s rightfully owned seat.
Overhearing me explain my situation, one of the guys in the booth who spoke perfect English told me not to worry and that I could buy a general ticket from the ticket counter and would probably not be fined for riding with no ticket – because I didn’t even have a wait listed one.
I talked for a while with the guys in my booth, answering the usual questions: “You are from which country?” “How do you find India?” “How long have you stayed?” After a while I found out that the guy who advised me about the ticket had the upper birth, so I asked him if I could lay up there while he was still sitting. My plan had evolved so that I was going to sleep as much as possible before everyone else went to bed, and then just stay up the rest of the night. This concept seemed a lot more appealing than sleeping on a floor that seemed permanently dampened with something similar to the ambiguous liquid you find on the bottom of a uncleaned public bathroom -is it water? Is it urine? Are the brown smears from muddy shoes or…? I don’t know.
I slept for two hours until he woke me. At this time, I realized that there was still a bed open in the booth. So I moved all of my stuff to this bunk, trying to extend my sleep until the person who had the ticket for the bed got on the train. I was asleep for another hour until he shook my foot to wake me. While I collected my stuff to prepare for a rough 9 hours ahead, one of the other guys on the lower bunk offered to let me sit by his feet while he slept. The man who kicked me out of his bed was surprised to learn that I didn’t have a confirmed ticket. In a tone that was apologetic for waking me, he told me to sleep back on his birth while he visited friends on the train. Thankfully, I went back and passed out again. I didn’t unpack my blanket or the sweater I had been using as a pillow again because I figured he’d be back in an hour or two. But, he never came back. He gave me his bed for the whole night. And… the best part of all of this was that when the ticket counter came around, I was sleeping. So, the guys in my booth told him that I did indeed have a confirmed ticket, that they had seen it, and that he shouldn’t wake me, as I had to work in the morning. I never had to buy a ticket.
I am still blown away by how much everyone in my booth had my back. The train ride that I was sure was going to be the most uncomfortable night of my life turned into a solid sleep because of kind gesture after kind gesture by all of these strangers.
I come from a society where we really only look out for ourselves and the ones we love. “If I paid for this ticket, why should I have to share my seat with someone who didn’t?” The act of accommodating for someone we don’t know is usually accompanied by an eye roll. We don’t really think about the situation that person might be in. Would it really impact us that much if we let them sit at the end of our birth while we slept? Not really, but it would mean that they don’t have to sit on the dirty floor. To be honest, I’m quite embarrassed about my thoughts regarding this before my journey home. I learned a lesson of empathy from this whole experience. And, I learned why telling someone to leave your paid seat really isn’t the way of sleeper class. Everyone is taking the train because they have somewhere to be. Why not help them get there a little more comfortably?
In the morning, I looked for the man who let me sleep in his bunk, but I couldn’t find him. I never did find out where he slept, but I can assume he probably wasn’t as comfortable as he allowed me to be. So, in the one in a billion shot that he ever reads this, Thank you.
Because so many people travel by train, there’s always a wait list for tickets. If you don’t book at least a week in advance, there’s a good chance you wont get a ticket. But, as long as you have a wait list ticket, you can still got on the train (even if its wait list #400). You are permitted to stand/sleep in the aisles near the bathrooms and, provided someone can “accommodate” you, you are allowed to sit in sleeper class while people are still sitting and sleep on the dirty floor of the booths at night. What this really means, is that in sleeper class there is about twice as many people as actual paid tickets, meaning that there isn’t much choice of whether or not to “accommodate”. This is probably the major advantage of the AC classes – your comfort is ensured, as wait list ticket holders are prohibited from entering the booths.
I found this quite annoying each time I travelled. I felt like I had paid for my ticket and bought it on time, why did I have to share my seat with someone who hadn’t done the same. Sure… I could have told them to leave, but that didn’t seem to be the way things worked in sleeper class. I chalked it up as one of those “you get what you pay for” kind of things.
Most recently, I took the train to Varanasi. Overnight Friday night there, overnight Sunday night back: I didn’t want to miss any work. Malik had a little bit more to do this weekend, so he also took the train on Friday there, but came back in the same day with the Saturday night train.
The ride there was a great success. We met some other tourists that I later had dinner with that night. On the way back, it was a little bit of a different story. Because of an unexpected Sunday night traffic jam on the way to the Varanasi station, I almost missed my train. I caught it with about 5 minutes to spare, but when I got to my birth, there was someone else’s stuff there. Normally this would be expected, but I had the upper birth, and normally the wait list tickets cram into the sitting bench made by the middle and lower beds and the upper birth is kind of reserved for the person that actually has that ticket, as it always remains horizontal. The other thing that made it weird was the fact that the guy who owned the stuff was white, and considering the usual travel demands of those in Western society, it was unlikely that he would travel on a wait list ticket that would require him to sleep on the muddy, buggy, urine smelling floor. Naturally I pulled out my ticket, and showed him that it was my seat. He then pulled out his ticket, and we stared blankly for a couple seconds. We had identical seat numbers. So, I went and checked the confirmation list that they post on the outside of the train. It listed his name. I looked down at my ticket only to realize that there had been a booking error – the man who had booked my ticket had put me on the same train as Malik instead of the one the night later. My train had left the night before, and I had no ticket for this one.
At this point, I didn’t really have a choice as to whether or not I was going to take the train – I needed to get back to work for the next morning. Also, because I had arrived late, I didn’t have to option of going to the booking office and seeing if they had any last minute cancellations. I just got on the train with the plan to buy a wait list ticket from the ticket counter. I was going to have to sleep on the floor… for 14 hours.
As the train started to move, I sat down in the seat nearest to the door. A man almost immediately came up to me and told me it was his seat. I told him I didn’t have a confirmed ticket and asked if he could “accommodate”. I had become the person sitting in someone else’s rightfully owned seat.
Overhearing me explain my situation, one of the guys in the booth who spoke perfect English told me not to worry and that I could buy a general ticket from the ticket counter and would probably not be fined for riding with no ticket – because I didn’t even have a wait listed one.
I talked for a while with the guys in my booth, answering the usual questions: “You are from which country?” “How do you find India?” “How long have you stayed?” After a while I found out that the guy who advised me about the ticket had the upper birth, so I asked him if I could lay up there while he was still sitting. My plan had evolved so that I was going to sleep as much as possible before everyone else went to bed, and then just stay up the rest of the night. This concept seemed a lot more appealing than sleeping on a floor that seemed permanently dampened with something similar to the ambiguous liquid you find on the bottom of a uncleaned public bathroom -is it water? Is it urine? Are the brown smears from muddy shoes or…? I don’t know.
I slept for two hours until he woke me. At this time, I realized that there was still a bed open in the booth. So I moved all of my stuff to this bunk, trying to extend my sleep until the person who had the ticket for the bed got on the train. I was asleep for another hour until he shook my foot to wake me. While I collected my stuff to prepare for a rough 9 hours ahead, one of the other guys on the lower bunk offered to let me sit by his feet while he slept. The man who kicked me out of his bed was surprised to learn that I didn’t have a confirmed ticket. In a tone that was apologetic for waking me, he told me to sleep back on his birth while he visited friends on the train. Thankfully, I went back and passed out again. I didn’t unpack my blanket or the sweater I had been using as a pillow again because I figured he’d be back in an hour or two. But, he never came back. He gave me his bed for the whole night. And… the best part of all of this was that when the ticket counter came around, I was sleeping. So, the guys in my booth told him that I did indeed have a confirmed ticket, that they had seen it, and that he shouldn’t wake me, as I had to work in the morning. I never had to buy a ticket.
I am still blown away by how much everyone in my booth had my back. The train ride that I was sure was going to be the most uncomfortable night of my life turned into a solid sleep because of kind gesture after kind gesture by all of these strangers.
I come from a society where we really only look out for ourselves and the ones we love. “If I paid for this ticket, why should I have to share my seat with someone who didn’t?” The act of accommodating for someone we don’t know is usually accompanied by an eye roll. We don’t really think about the situation that person might be in. Would it really impact us that much if we let them sit at the end of our birth while we slept? Not really, but it would mean that they don’t have to sit on the dirty floor. To be honest, I’m quite embarrassed about my thoughts regarding this before my journey home. I learned a lesson of empathy from this whole experience. And, I learned why telling someone to leave your paid seat really isn’t the way of sleeper class. Everyone is taking the train because they have somewhere to be. Why not help them get there a little more comfortably?
In the morning, I looked for the man who let me sleep in his bunk, but I couldn’t find him. I never did find out where he slept, but I can assume he probably wasn’t as comfortable as he allowed me to be. So, in the one in a billion shot that he ever reads this, Thank you.
Monday, November 21, 2011
An Excess of Seasoning
The office is empty these days. I look around to find only a few heads peaking over the cubicles. Why, you might ask? It is the season. Right now in Delhi, it is the season for EVERYTHING.
My lunchtime conversations are filled with people offering me suggestions on what to do on the weekends. "You know, you should go for a picnic; it is the season", or "This is the season for all the outdoor concerts", or "Did you celebrate (insert religious holiday from any religion here)? it's the holiday season."
The phrase, "it is the season" seems to be an explanation for much more than the work absences though, to the point where it has become a funny way to dismiss unwanted obligations.
"We can go out to a club on a Wednesday... It is the season!"
It's the perfect weather that has brought on this extra bit of seasoning. For the past month, the weather has been the same everyday: clear skies, a high in the mid-twenties, with a light breeze. Unfortunately for me, this has become my season to buckle down. I have A LOT to do on my project, and only two and a half weeks left to do it. However, it has been clear that my work for PHFI will not come to an end when I leave, as there are many more research opportunities available from the base data that I have collected. But for now, I am trying to get as much done as possible... and also trying to enjoy "the season".
My lunchtime conversations are filled with people offering me suggestions on what to do on the weekends. "You know, you should go for a picnic; it is the season", or "This is the season for all the outdoor concerts", or "Did you celebrate (insert religious holiday from any religion here)? it's the holiday season."
The phrase, "it is the season" seems to be an explanation for much more than the work absences though, to the point where it has become a funny way to dismiss unwanted obligations.
"We can go out to a club on a Wednesday... It is the season!"
It's the perfect weather that has brought on this extra bit of seasoning. For the past month, the weather has been the same everyday: clear skies, a high in the mid-twenties, with a light breeze. Unfortunately for me, this has become my season to buckle down. I have A LOT to do on my project, and only two and a half weeks left to do it. However, it has been clear that my work for PHFI will not come to an end when I leave, as there are many more research opportunities available from the base data that I have collected. But for now, I am trying to get as much done as possible... and also trying to enjoy "the season".
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
A Guilty Lottery Winner
Where I live, expensive cars whiz past on the highways of a developed nation.
Where I live, all of the fast food places from North America deliver.
Where I live, having a maid is not a luxury; it is commonplace.
Where I live, people have PhD’s, successful businesses and old money.
Where I live, the mall has Forever 21, Cinnabon, Lacoste, Gucci, Armani, Louis Vitton and Hugo Boss.
Where I live, a 3 bedroom flat is worth 2 million dollars.
But where they live, they squat on government land.
Where they live, they don’t have sanitation measures; they defecate on the street.
Where they live, they are lucky to eat once a day.
Where they live, those passing by don’t look at them; they stare at their feet to avoid seeing the helplessness.
Where they live is all around where I live.
I “see” them everyday, as I sit in the car staring at my feet, at the clock, at my phone, at anything besides them as they walk up to my car window holding a newborn infant and asking for money for food. Until the light changes, I stare elsewhere because if I don’t look, I don’t have to feel as bad. I can think to myself in the way I’m supposed to think: continuing to give to beggers fuels the billion dollar mafia-esque begging industry. It promotes the idea that a life can be made off of dependency. The money probably wouldn’t even go towards food for the child, but rather to the mob boss, or to smoking or drinking. So, I think to myself, it’s really better for me NOT to give. I think this, the light changes and I drive away.
Then sometimes, I look and that notion of doing what I am “supposed” to do becomes a lot harder. I see a five-year-old child, malnourished and dirty, asking for 20 cents so they can eat chapatti. “They probably don’t even get the money. They probably give it to their begging boss to make a quota.” The thought enters my head, on schedule and rehearsed. As I continue to look, I start to think, “Yes, but what happens to them if they don’t meet that quota?” or “Does it really matter? What the hell were you going to do with the 20 cents?” Sometimes this train of thought wins, sometimes the light changes before I give in. Either way, I am left feeling helpless and ashamed.
It’s the children that always get to me. They’re the ones that I tear-up over – it’s their innocence; it’s the thoughts of their future. But, in reality, it’s the old beggers that have it the worst. They are the ones truly with nothing. Their families have left them at some point. Likely, they lived paycheck to paycheck through their working years, and because there are no old-age pensions here, they are left in their old age handcuffed without a key. Their bodies are brittle and worn: the men are unable to do manual labour, and the women can’t even prostitute themselves. Begging is their only means of survival.
I “see” this everyday. But, on the days I really see it, I feel it too. I was born on the right side of the world with the right family. Why?
Where I live, all of the fast food places from North America deliver.
Where I live, having a maid is not a luxury; it is commonplace.
Where I live, people have PhD’s, successful businesses and old money.
Where I live, the mall has Forever 21, Cinnabon, Lacoste, Gucci, Armani, Louis Vitton and Hugo Boss.
Where I live, a 3 bedroom flat is worth 2 million dollars.
But where they live, they squat on government land.
Where they live, they don’t have sanitation measures; they defecate on the street.
Where they live, they are lucky to eat once a day.
Where they live, those passing by don’t look at them; they stare at their feet to avoid seeing the helplessness.
Where they live is all around where I live.
I “see” them everyday, as I sit in the car staring at my feet, at the clock, at my phone, at anything besides them as they walk up to my car window holding a newborn infant and asking for money for food. Until the light changes, I stare elsewhere because if I don’t look, I don’t have to feel as bad. I can think to myself in the way I’m supposed to think: continuing to give to beggers fuels the billion dollar mafia-esque begging industry. It promotes the idea that a life can be made off of dependency. The money probably wouldn’t even go towards food for the child, but rather to the mob boss, or to smoking or drinking. So, I think to myself, it’s really better for me NOT to give. I think this, the light changes and I drive away.
Then sometimes, I look and that notion of doing what I am “supposed” to do becomes a lot harder. I see a five-year-old child, malnourished and dirty, asking for 20 cents so they can eat chapatti. “They probably don’t even get the money. They probably give it to their begging boss to make a quota.” The thought enters my head, on schedule and rehearsed. As I continue to look, I start to think, “Yes, but what happens to them if they don’t meet that quota?” or “Does it really matter? What the hell were you going to do with the 20 cents?” Sometimes this train of thought wins, sometimes the light changes before I give in. Either way, I am left feeling helpless and ashamed.
It’s the children that always get to me. They’re the ones that I tear-up over – it’s their innocence; it’s the thoughts of their future. But, in reality, it’s the old beggers that have it the worst. They are the ones truly with nothing. Their families have left them at some point. Likely, they lived paycheck to paycheck through their working years, and because there are no old-age pensions here, they are left in their old age handcuffed without a key. Their bodies are brittle and worn: the men are unable to do manual labour, and the women can’t even prostitute themselves. Begging is their only means of survival.
I “see” this everyday. But, on the days I really see it, I feel it too. I was born on the right side of the world with the right family. Why?
Sunday, October 30, 2011
The Festival of Lights... Done Right (Sorry PTBO and Del Crary Park)
The holiday season is always the best time of the year. It is true in North America, just as it is true here. At home, around Christmas time, you can feel a general presence of positivity among people. The lights, the family time, the gifts and the wishing each other a “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Hanukkah” seems to make people more cheerful.
Well, this past week has been the Diwali season, and the same sort of positivity exists here as well. Diwali is the biggest and most celebrated Hindu festival of the year – equivalent to Christmas for Christians. It is deemed “the festival of lights”, as it is a part of the tradition for each family to hang lights from their homes, light a series of oil lamps outside their doors, and set off fireworks. Although the festival is of religious origin, it has become much more about spending time with family and friends. People host large parties for their friends and families at their homes, where they exchange traditional Diwali sweets and eat A LOT of food. These parties tend to be for all generations and often span into the wee ours of morning for all. Even the 70-year-old aunties are up until 5am fulfilling their duty of making sure everyone eats enough – for those of you who don’t have a great deal of exposure to Indian culture, think Italian grandmother.
Malik and I were fortunate enough to be invited to two Diwali parties. The first one was a Diwali card party. The party, hosted by one of our coworkers and her parents, had about 70 people of all different ages and was a really great time – I had 2nd and 3rd dinner. Awesome. The second one was on the actually night of Diwali at Krishna’s parent’s house and was a small get together of their immediate family (Krishna is the man we are living with). His family accepted us with warmth and love and really made us feel as though we were at home, celebrating with our family. It was a really nice taste of the family time you often miss while abroad.
Through the festivities, there were some traditions though that I couldn’t help but laugh at, mostly because they were a perfect reflection of Indian culture. So, as I mentioned above, the first party we went to was a card party. Playing cards is one of the most popular activities during Diwali, and it usually involves a little bit of gambling. I have played my fair share of cards in the past – countless lunch hours and spares at TAS spent playing euchre, cribbage at the cottage with my Grandpa, poker with my friends at hockey tournaments and Rummoli tournaments at the farm. However, Indian cards is truly an “Indian” experience. There are traditional games that they play, many of which the basic rules are similar to poker, so it wasn’t very hard to get the gist. However, like most things here, the games are chaotic. At home, when you get together to play cards, you play one game: poker, euchre etc for at least a while before deciding to switch. Here, every single time someone deals, you play a different game with different rules. And, for each game, each person seems to have their own set of rules. So, every hand, the first ten minutes is spent with a combination of explaining the rules to those who don’t know, and arguing over what the proper way to play those rules actually is. By the chance that you find a game that you like, and purpose to play it again when it’s your turn to deal, everyone complains that it’s already been played. To make another comparison, at home, if you’re playing cards, the game is the focus of what you are doing. So, if you chose to go refill your drink or run to the washroom, or answer a phone call, you really choose one of two options: have the dealer deal you out, or do so in between hands and be speedy. Not in India. Games stop and start randomly and people come in and out arbitrarily. Chaos. Yet, through all of this you can realize that its really not about the game; it’s about the time you spend with the people. That said, I did come away 500 rupees richer. BOOOOYAAAH
The second tradition is fireworks. Now, we have fireworks at home, so I thought I knew what that was all about. Canada Day, New Years and 4th of July all come with big firework celebrations. Usually people go to public parks to watch shows put on by municipalities or head to their cottages to set off their own in a place safely surrounded by water. What is the choice location here, you might ask? The streets. Children as young as five run into the middle of the roads to set off exploding crackers, which cars swerve to avoid. There are few, if any, public showings of fireworks. EVERYONE buys their own. So, in a country of 1.3 billion people, you can imagine how many fireworks are actually set off. The other main difference is in the nature of the fireworks themselves. At home, the emphasis is put on those that produce amazing colours and beautiful light patterns. Here: the loudest noise possible! The ‘best’ crackers here are the ones that resemble mini bombs. You light them off… run behind something… cover your ears… and wait for a blast so loud and powerful that you feel it in your chest and the car alarms of any vehicle within a 20-yard radius are left wailing.
Malik: “DID YOU SEE THAT?”
Graeme: “WHAAAAAT?”
Malik: “WHAAAT?”
Delhi is never a quiet place, nor is the air ever very clean, but the day after Diwali you enter the city feeling as though it had just hosted the biggest rock concert ever, trash littering the ground, ringing in your ears, incredibly happy people, and a cloud of smoke that you kind of hope is fog for your lungs’ sake.
Happy Diwali!!!! ………..WHAAT?
Well, this past week has been the Diwali season, and the same sort of positivity exists here as well. Diwali is the biggest and most celebrated Hindu festival of the year – equivalent to Christmas for Christians. It is deemed “the festival of lights”, as it is a part of the tradition for each family to hang lights from their homes, light a series of oil lamps outside their doors, and set off fireworks. Although the festival is of religious origin, it has become much more about spending time with family and friends. People host large parties for their friends and families at their homes, where they exchange traditional Diwali sweets and eat A LOT of food. These parties tend to be for all generations and often span into the wee ours of morning for all. Even the 70-year-old aunties are up until 5am fulfilling their duty of making sure everyone eats enough – for those of you who don’t have a great deal of exposure to Indian culture, think Italian grandmother.
Malik and I were fortunate enough to be invited to two Diwali parties. The first one was a Diwali card party. The party, hosted by one of our coworkers and her parents, had about 70 people of all different ages and was a really great time – I had 2nd and 3rd dinner. Awesome. The second one was on the actually night of Diwali at Krishna’s parent’s house and was a small get together of their immediate family (Krishna is the man we are living with). His family accepted us with warmth and love and really made us feel as though we were at home, celebrating with our family. It was a really nice taste of the family time you often miss while abroad.
Through the festivities, there were some traditions though that I couldn’t help but laugh at, mostly because they were a perfect reflection of Indian culture. So, as I mentioned above, the first party we went to was a card party. Playing cards is one of the most popular activities during Diwali, and it usually involves a little bit of gambling. I have played my fair share of cards in the past – countless lunch hours and spares at TAS spent playing euchre, cribbage at the cottage with my Grandpa, poker with my friends at hockey tournaments and Rummoli tournaments at the farm. However, Indian cards is truly an “Indian” experience. There are traditional games that they play, many of which the basic rules are similar to poker, so it wasn’t very hard to get the gist. However, like most things here, the games are chaotic. At home, when you get together to play cards, you play one game: poker, euchre etc for at least a while before deciding to switch. Here, every single time someone deals, you play a different game with different rules. And, for each game, each person seems to have their own set of rules. So, every hand, the first ten minutes is spent with a combination of explaining the rules to those who don’t know, and arguing over what the proper way to play those rules actually is. By the chance that you find a game that you like, and purpose to play it again when it’s your turn to deal, everyone complains that it’s already been played. To make another comparison, at home, if you’re playing cards, the game is the focus of what you are doing. So, if you chose to go refill your drink or run to the washroom, or answer a phone call, you really choose one of two options: have the dealer deal you out, or do so in between hands and be speedy. Not in India. Games stop and start randomly and people come in and out arbitrarily. Chaos. Yet, through all of this you can realize that its really not about the game; it’s about the time you spend with the people. That said, I did come away 500 rupees richer. BOOOOYAAAH
The second tradition is fireworks. Now, we have fireworks at home, so I thought I knew what that was all about. Canada Day, New Years and 4th of July all come with big firework celebrations. Usually people go to public parks to watch shows put on by municipalities or head to their cottages to set off their own in a place safely surrounded by water. What is the choice location here, you might ask? The streets. Children as young as five run into the middle of the roads to set off exploding crackers, which cars swerve to avoid. There are few, if any, public showings of fireworks. EVERYONE buys their own. So, in a country of 1.3 billion people, you can imagine how many fireworks are actually set off. The other main difference is in the nature of the fireworks themselves. At home, the emphasis is put on those that produce amazing colours and beautiful light patterns. Here: the loudest noise possible! The ‘best’ crackers here are the ones that resemble mini bombs. You light them off… run behind something… cover your ears… and wait for a blast so loud and powerful that you feel it in your chest and the car alarms of any vehicle within a 20-yard radius are left wailing.
Malik: “DID YOU SEE THAT?”
Graeme: “WHAAAAAT?”
Malik: “WHAAAT?”
Delhi is never a quiet place, nor is the air ever very clean, but the day after Diwali you enter the city feeling as though it had just hosted the biggest rock concert ever, trash littering the ground, ringing in your ears, incredibly happy people, and a cloud of smoke that you kind of hope is fog for your lungs’ sake.
Happy Diwali!!!! ………..WHAAT?
Friday, October 7, 2011
Scratch and Sniff Traveling
You walk through the crowds of people; your eyes are transfixed on the incredible amount of colours in such a crowded place. Looking mostly at your feet to be sure you know what you’re stepping on, in or around, you see the flashes of women’s sari’s as they pass you. Bright orange, blue, red, pink and green are swirled into a blur, as if God had a hunger for abstract art and used this city as his canvas to splatter with colour.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! An orchestra of monotonous tones ensures that silence is never heard. Overwhelming are the traffic routes of whatever lies ahead, in front, behind and beside you, as auto-rickshaws, bicycle rickshaws, pedestrians, goats, cows, cars and stray dogs all move past you in conflicting directions – a real life game of Frogger, without the extra lives.
With each new step and each new moment trying to avoid being hit, comes a new smell. Your nose feels more confusion than anything else, trying desperately to determine if you are in a public bathroom or an aromatic kitchen. Hopeless it is in predicting whether the smoke cloud you are about to walk into will bring the wonderful smell of burning lavender incense, or the harsh stench of a burning petroleum product.
Sensory overload.
You are in Old Delhi, and somehow, it is one of the most beautiful experiences you have ever had.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! An orchestra of monotonous tones ensures that silence is never heard. Overwhelming are the traffic routes of whatever lies ahead, in front, behind and beside you, as auto-rickshaws, bicycle rickshaws, pedestrians, goats, cows, cars and stray dogs all move past you in conflicting directions – a real life game of Frogger, without the extra lives.
With each new step and each new moment trying to avoid being hit, comes a new smell. Your nose feels more confusion than anything else, trying desperately to determine if you are in a public bathroom or an aromatic kitchen. Hopeless it is in predicting whether the smoke cloud you are about to walk into will bring the wonderful smell of burning lavender incense, or the harsh stench of a burning petroleum product.
Sensory overload.
You are in Old Delhi, and somehow, it is one of the most beautiful experiences you have ever had.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Turn Right to Get a Feel for India
So, this is my favourite part of travel blogging: cultural observations. I feel as though these are the funny posts you can laugh at back home, and also the ones that give you a true sense of the colloquialisms abroad. Keep in mind that these observations do not apply to ALL Indians, but are just general themes I have noticed during my time here.
THE INDIAN HEAD WOBBLE: This is not a gesture made up by comedians wishing to make fun of brown people; this is actually India’s most commonly used action of non-verbal nature… as nodding or shrugging would be in Canada. The problem is that this gesture does not have fixed meaning. At home, if you shake your head, it always means no. Here, the wobble can mean many things depending on the context. So far, the I have found the bobble-head-esque action to take the place of yes, maybe, okay, I’ll consider it, I hear what your saying but choose not to acknowledge it in any formal way, and I don’t know. Now you can see how this would become confusing when asking people different questions, like, “do you know how to get where we are going?”, “Is this meat cooked?” or “Is 50 Rupees okay?”. Now, a head wobble in response to all those questions could mean that every one could be answered yes, in which case all is merry. However, what this might mean is: I don’t know where we are going, I choose not to acknowledge whether or not this meat is not cooked, and I’ll consider your 50 Rupee offer. Which of course will lead to a lost, broke, diarrheal state. See how this can be different…
Malik and I are both trying out the head wobble here and there, but for you whities out there, the actual action is harder than you would think. You really have to act like your head is not attached to your neck and just wants to move from side to side. I vow to perfect this before my time here is over.
THE DIRECTIONS: As expected, a lot of the roads here don’t have names, and if they do have names, no one really knows what there are. Directions here are given on a landmark basis, but the problem with that is, if they are vague and you can’t directly see the landmark, you really have no idea where you’re going. Let me take this opportunity to refresh your memory of the fact that I am extremely directionally challenged in the first place and have never in my life been able to figure out which direction is north without a proper map. However, to compensate for this lack of geographic awareness, I make it an effort to ask for directions along the way when I don’t know where I’m going. This works out fine at home, because at home, if the person you ask doesn’t know the way to the place you’re trying to go, they will simply tell you that they don’t know. Here, they like to just point confidently in a random direction. Sweet.
THE ATTIRE: For those of you from outside of Peterborough, who look down upon our fashion style of white socks in Birkenstocks, I have a new one for you. Pleated pants with flip-flops. It’s so common around here you almost feel like it’s the dress code. Also, the mustache rumours are true, early statistical data indicated a prevalence rate of 60%, 10% of which are of the long, curly variety.
THE SECURITY: If you are a person that complains about going through security at the airport, do not come to Delhi. Every mall, hotel, subway station, public park and market place is complete with a walk-through metal detector, pat-down security, and x-ray bag searches. I have had my inner thigh stroked more times in the last two weeks than in my entire life… by mustache bearing men in pleated pants and flip-flops of course.
THE INDIAN HEAD WOBBLE: This is not a gesture made up by comedians wishing to make fun of brown people; this is actually India’s most commonly used action of non-verbal nature… as nodding or shrugging would be in Canada. The problem is that this gesture does not have fixed meaning. At home, if you shake your head, it always means no. Here, the wobble can mean many things depending on the context. So far, the I have found the bobble-head-esque action to take the place of yes, maybe, okay, I’ll consider it, I hear what your saying but choose not to acknowledge it in any formal way, and I don’t know. Now you can see how this would become confusing when asking people different questions, like, “do you know how to get where we are going?”, “Is this meat cooked?” or “Is 50 Rupees okay?”. Now, a head wobble in response to all those questions could mean that every one could be answered yes, in which case all is merry. However, what this might mean is: I don’t know where we are going, I choose not to acknowledge whether or not this meat is not cooked, and I’ll consider your 50 Rupee offer. Which of course will lead to a lost, broke, diarrheal state. See how this can be different…
Malik and I are both trying out the head wobble here and there, but for you whities out there, the actual action is harder than you would think. You really have to act like your head is not attached to your neck and just wants to move from side to side. I vow to perfect this before my time here is over.
THE DIRECTIONS: As expected, a lot of the roads here don’t have names, and if they do have names, no one really knows what there are. Directions here are given on a landmark basis, but the problem with that is, if they are vague and you can’t directly see the landmark, you really have no idea where you’re going. Let me take this opportunity to refresh your memory of the fact that I am extremely directionally challenged in the first place and have never in my life been able to figure out which direction is north without a proper map. However, to compensate for this lack of geographic awareness, I make it an effort to ask for directions along the way when I don’t know where I’m going. This works out fine at home, because at home, if the person you ask doesn’t know the way to the place you’re trying to go, they will simply tell you that they don’t know. Here, they like to just point confidently in a random direction. Sweet.
THE ATTIRE: For those of you from outside of Peterborough, who look down upon our fashion style of white socks in Birkenstocks, I have a new one for you. Pleated pants with flip-flops. It’s so common around here you almost feel like it’s the dress code. Also, the mustache rumours are true, early statistical data indicated a prevalence rate of 60%, 10% of which are of the long, curly variety.
THE SECURITY: If you are a person that complains about going through security at the airport, do not come to Delhi. Every mall, hotel, subway station, public park and market place is complete with a walk-through metal detector, pat-down security, and x-ray bag searches. I have had my inner thigh stroked more times in the last two weeks than in my entire life… by mustache bearing men in pleated pants and flip-flops of course.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Cubicle Geeks Working 40-hour Weeks
I have not posted about what it is I am doing in India yet because I have been really busy. So, as I mentioned before, I am working with the Public Health Foundation of India (PHFI). It’s a relatively large organization (80 employees) with some relatively important people. The office that I’m working is really nice – a three-floor building filled with window offices for the important people and cubicles for the not-so-important people (most of whom still have the Dr. prefix… and me!). Now for the science babble:
What I am doing is mapping the institutional laboratory capacity to combat zoonotic disease in India. A zoonose is a pathogen that passes from vertebrate animals to humans, which accounts for roughly 70% of all infectious diseases (rabies, anthrax, Japanese encephalitis, avian flu etc). Because of the nature of zoonoses, the parties contributing to the research on this topic span several sectors. Scientists within the realms of human health, veterinary practice, infectious disease specialties and wildlife health are all contributing research, yet the distribution of this research is really only done within their own respective work silos. Thus, within a specialty that already has sparse resources and funding, professionals are unable to work efficiently, as it is not known who is doing what in what sector. Enter me. My job is essentially to compile a database consisting of all the research institutions in India currently contributing to zoonotic combatance in some laboratory capacity, listing also the key information associated with each lab. The rationale behind this is that when this information is disseminated, it will promote inter-professional collaboration, make it easier to mobilize public health outbreak interventions, and provide accurate information to funding bodies, highlighting neglected or duplicated areas of research.
So, what I’m doing is a lot of data entry, but at least its data entry with a purpose. The workday here starts at 10am (WOO!) and goes until 6. So, I work those hours within the office. There are a lot of really great people at PHFI, and my floor (3rd floor, whaaaaat uuuuuup?) is the best place to be. There are quite a few young people (when I say young, I mean 25-30; Malik and I are the only ones under 25), and most of them are American educated. It’s a good time. We went out to our first Bollywood movie in India with a bunch of them, and Malik and plan to organize a bowling night in the near future – the nearby bowling alley is glow in the dark and has a live DJ ☺. I like my work so far, and the people are great and super helpful, even though a lot of them have credentials that, when though about, can be quite intimidating.
Well, that’s all for now… I’ll post something that’s more fun soon.
What I am doing is mapping the institutional laboratory capacity to combat zoonotic disease in India. A zoonose is a pathogen that passes from vertebrate animals to humans, which accounts for roughly 70% of all infectious diseases (rabies, anthrax, Japanese encephalitis, avian flu etc). Because of the nature of zoonoses, the parties contributing to the research on this topic span several sectors. Scientists within the realms of human health, veterinary practice, infectious disease specialties and wildlife health are all contributing research, yet the distribution of this research is really only done within their own respective work silos. Thus, within a specialty that already has sparse resources and funding, professionals are unable to work efficiently, as it is not known who is doing what in what sector. Enter me. My job is essentially to compile a database consisting of all the research institutions in India currently contributing to zoonotic combatance in some laboratory capacity, listing also the key information associated with each lab. The rationale behind this is that when this information is disseminated, it will promote inter-professional collaboration, make it easier to mobilize public health outbreak interventions, and provide accurate information to funding bodies, highlighting neglected or duplicated areas of research.
So, what I’m doing is a lot of data entry, but at least its data entry with a purpose. The workday here starts at 10am (WOO!) and goes until 6. So, I work those hours within the office. There are a lot of really great people at PHFI, and my floor (3rd floor, whaaaaat uuuuuup?) is the best place to be. There are quite a few young people (when I say young, I mean 25-30; Malik and I are the only ones under 25), and most of them are American educated. It’s a good time. We went out to our first Bollywood movie in India with a bunch of them, and Malik and plan to organize a bowling night in the near future – the nearby bowling alley is glow in the dark and has a live DJ ☺. I like my work so far, and the people are great and super helpful, even though a lot of them have credentials that, when though about, can be quite intimidating.
Well, that’s all for now… I’ll post something that’s more fun soon.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
A Suitable Epic
I have had some hesitation about posting this, and at the end you may see why.
Also, sorry for the length haha.
In order to properly tell this story I will have to venture back to when Aubrey and I first arrived in Bangkok. On our first day, the plan was just to walk around and eventually make our way to Chinatown – a market district where you can buy cheap souvenirs.
Our plans became sidetracked when we stopped an asked a man on the street for directions. He greeted us enthusiastically with near perfect English, explaining that he too was on vacation in Bangkok and that we were very lucky to be traveling because that day was actually a national holiday. He was from the north of Thailand and was visiting his mother and sister in the city. He eagerly took our map from us, circling all the tourist attractions that he had visited earlier in the week, giving us the time it should take for each adventure and the cost so we wouldn’t get ripped off. Wrote down and recommended a riverboat ride to see the city, a stadium to watch Moi Thai boxing, a cashmere suit factory (very popular in Thailand), and two major temples that we should see. He then called over a tuk-tuk for us and negotiated a really good price for us to go to the riverboat place. This was one of the really nice people we met, someone who helped us without expecting anything in return, as mentioned in the last post.
So, we embarked on our first journey, getting a taste of Bangkok from the river. The mix of what we saw was extremely interesting. Amongst the elaborate gorgeous temples and five star hotels were modest stilted Thai homes and a river filled with fish ready to gobble up and bread thrown to them by boat-ridden tourists like ourselves. We left the boat ride happy that we had done it and thankful to the kind man who had helped us.
We then walked around for a while longer, weaving through markets and eating the amazing street food. Around 3 hours after our encounter with the Thai tourist, we decided to go to one of the temples the man had told us about. This temple was famous for its 3 huge gold Buddha statues, one standing, one seated, one laying down. As soon as we got to the temple we were greeted enthusiastically by another Thai man who spoke near-perfect English. He was excited we visited the temple on the holiday and explained how he was taking the day to worship. He told us about the core concepts of Buddhism and showed us inside the temple. We talked for quite some time, him explaining that he was a “master”… meaning that he had obtained a masters degree and worked for the Bank of Thailand and had actually recently returned from a trip to New York. After a while, he asked us what else we planned to do while in the city and asked to see our map. He pointed to many of the same locations and then stood up excitedly. “How did you hear about this place?” he said, pointing to the marked cashmere factory that the man before had mentioned. He told us that that is the place where he buys his suits. He explained that it is a factory only for export for high name brands like Gucci and Armani and that once a year their showroom was open to the public. He said that the quality is so good that he waits to buy it during that time each year, which is planned around the week of the current national holiday.
And so, we thought we would check it out. The man told our tuk-tuk driver where to go and we headed there. We entered a beautiful showroom where the walls were filled with beautiful fabrics and the mannequins were sporting really nice suits. The men greeted us and welcomed us to the shop on the holiday. They were both very smooth, and you could tell that they were very good salesmen. I am doing this trip on a very limited budget, but I had flirted with the idea of buying a tailored suit in India before I left, and these guys looked like they knew what they were doing. After a lot of humming and hawing I decided to make a purchase. The deal was: 1 three-piece cashmere suit (light grey), 2 silk or high quality cotton shirts (one plain white, one flashy dark green), all tailored for me specifically and 1 silk tie for around $400. I left after them taking all my measurements unsure about the purchase; I knew the quality and price would be unmatched at home, but I was on a tight budget. Oh well… I got a good deal.
So after that, we caught our train south and left for the beach and had an amazing time there. When we returned a couple days later, and I went back for the fitting. Everything fit really well, and I was very happy with it… only a few minor alterations were necessary and they had to put the final touches on: sew the buttons in place etc. So, we caught our train north to Chiang Mai to play with the elephants. We had an amazing time there, as I’m sure you can see if you have me as a friend of Facebook. We arrived back in Bangkok, and the next day we went to pick up the suit. I tried it on and it fit really well, so did the shirts. Happy with the purchase, I even wore one of the shirts out to dinner on our last night.
The people that helped a long the way, including the salesmen at the tailors were incredibly nice. Our experience in Bangkok was to end in the theme described before, one of a very positive nature. And then, I missed my flight because of a wakeup call that never came. It wasn’t a problem rescheduling it to the next day, thank goodness, but it meant that I would have one day alone as Aubrey left that morning. I planned on just relaxing and maybe getting another Thai massage ($4 for one hour…. WOOO). After I dropped Aubrey off at the airport, and we said our goodbyes for another three months, I went back to the hotel, checked in for another night, and hoped on one of the computers in the lobby. I was greeted by a screen that said something of the following:
Beware of the Thailand Tailor Scam, people have been making money off this for at least a decade. This is how it works:
A man who speaks English very well approaches tourists on the street and tells them it’s a ‘national holiday’, he then gives them some legitimate information about tourism in the area, but also slips in the name of a tailor. The man then calls another man in on the scam and tells him the appearances of the tourists and the place they seemed most likely to go from his recommendations. The other man then waits at this separate location, and once the tourists arrive, earns their trust by conversation and information about the attraction, once again confirming the supposed holiday. The man then excitedly talks about the tailor casually mentioned before and provides falsified information about a one time only sale for the holiday. The tourists are then tricked into buying counterfeit products from the tailor, usually polyester suits claiming to be cashmere at mark-up prices. The tailoring done is often very poor, and in some cases, the product is never delivered.
My heart sank; my stomach went into my throat. Never have I felt so embarrassed and betrayed. I had been conned. The very people we had met in Bangkok that we believed to be so selfless and nice were really just part of an elaborate scam, which I fell for. I consider both myself and Aubrey to be good tourists. We don’t typically overpay for products; we can usually sense when tours are fake, and we know that if a taxi driver/man on the street offers to take you to his shop, its probably not a good idea to go. I would also say that I am very good at reading people – being able to tell if someone is being sincere or bullshitting. Still, even now, I look back and cannot believe that these men were lying to us. They seemed so honest and genuinely helpful – something I can truly not convey through this blog. But, I had been had. I was alone in Bangkok, no computer of my own, no phone to call someone. I have been alone before, but never had I felt that feeling of loneliness that accompanied my embarrassment. All I could do was go to my room and cry. It wasn’t really even about the suit. It was about the lies. The fact that humanity repeatedly shows me that no stranger can be trusted. That is such a depressing thought, one that I really try my best not to accept as truth.
Now, days later, I consider myself very lucky. My suit actually fits very well and looks good, and the shirts fit better than any I have had before, regardless of their fabric. After researching the scams online, many involving the same tailor shop, most people received a much worse product. I think the only saving grace was the fact that I went in twice for fittings, thus making sure the product I was getting was well made… even if I was not able to tell the difference between cashmere and an imitative synthetic.
The sad part is that after an amazing vacation, this experience left a real sour taste in my mouth. In my last post, I described the Thai as beautiful selfless people, but a great deal of that thought was based off of the two ‘nice’ strangers who had helped us on our way. I am sure this may be still true, but I might not be so quick to feel at home at another place again – a protective, yet very depressing thought.
Also, sorry for the length haha.
In order to properly tell this story I will have to venture back to when Aubrey and I first arrived in Bangkok. On our first day, the plan was just to walk around and eventually make our way to Chinatown – a market district where you can buy cheap souvenirs.
Our plans became sidetracked when we stopped an asked a man on the street for directions. He greeted us enthusiastically with near perfect English, explaining that he too was on vacation in Bangkok and that we were very lucky to be traveling because that day was actually a national holiday. He was from the north of Thailand and was visiting his mother and sister in the city. He eagerly took our map from us, circling all the tourist attractions that he had visited earlier in the week, giving us the time it should take for each adventure and the cost so we wouldn’t get ripped off. Wrote down and recommended a riverboat ride to see the city, a stadium to watch Moi Thai boxing, a cashmere suit factory (very popular in Thailand), and two major temples that we should see. He then called over a tuk-tuk for us and negotiated a really good price for us to go to the riverboat place. This was one of the really nice people we met, someone who helped us without expecting anything in return, as mentioned in the last post.
So, we embarked on our first journey, getting a taste of Bangkok from the river. The mix of what we saw was extremely interesting. Amongst the elaborate gorgeous temples and five star hotels were modest stilted Thai homes and a river filled with fish ready to gobble up and bread thrown to them by boat-ridden tourists like ourselves. We left the boat ride happy that we had done it and thankful to the kind man who had helped us.
We then walked around for a while longer, weaving through markets and eating the amazing street food. Around 3 hours after our encounter with the Thai tourist, we decided to go to one of the temples the man had told us about. This temple was famous for its 3 huge gold Buddha statues, one standing, one seated, one laying down. As soon as we got to the temple we were greeted enthusiastically by another Thai man who spoke near-perfect English. He was excited we visited the temple on the holiday and explained how he was taking the day to worship. He told us about the core concepts of Buddhism and showed us inside the temple. We talked for quite some time, him explaining that he was a “master”… meaning that he had obtained a masters degree and worked for the Bank of Thailand and had actually recently returned from a trip to New York. After a while, he asked us what else we planned to do while in the city and asked to see our map. He pointed to many of the same locations and then stood up excitedly. “How did you hear about this place?” he said, pointing to the marked cashmere factory that the man before had mentioned. He told us that that is the place where he buys his suits. He explained that it is a factory only for export for high name brands like Gucci and Armani and that once a year their showroom was open to the public. He said that the quality is so good that he waits to buy it during that time each year, which is planned around the week of the current national holiday.
And so, we thought we would check it out. The man told our tuk-tuk driver where to go and we headed there. We entered a beautiful showroom where the walls were filled with beautiful fabrics and the mannequins were sporting really nice suits. The men greeted us and welcomed us to the shop on the holiday. They were both very smooth, and you could tell that they were very good salesmen. I am doing this trip on a very limited budget, but I had flirted with the idea of buying a tailored suit in India before I left, and these guys looked like they knew what they were doing. After a lot of humming and hawing I decided to make a purchase. The deal was: 1 three-piece cashmere suit (light grey), 2 silk or high quality cotton shirts (one plain white, one flashy dark green), all tailored for me specifically and 1 silk tie for around $400. I left after them taking all my measurements unsure about the purchase; I knew the quality and price would be unmatched at home, but I was on a tight budget. Oh well… I got a good deal.
So after that, we caught our train south and left for the beach and had an amazing time there. When we returned a couple days later, and I went back for the fitting. Everything fit really well, and I was very happy with it… only a few minor alterations were necessary and they had to put the final touches on: sew the buttons in place etc. So, we caught our train north to Chiang Mai to play with the elephants. We had an amazing time there, as I’m sure you can see if you have me as a friend of Facebook. We arrived back in Bangkok, and the next day we went to pick up the suit. I tried it on and it fit really well, so did the shirts. Happy with the purchase, I even wore one of the shirts out to dinner on our last night.
The people that helped a long the way, including the salesmen at the tailors were incredibly nice. Our experience in Bangkok was to end in the theme described before, one of a very positive nature. And then, I missed my flight because of a wakeup call that never came. It wasn’t a problem rescheduling it to the next day, thank goodness, but it meant that I would have one day alone as Aubrey left that morning. I planned on just relaxing and maybe getting another Thai massage ($4 for one hour…. WOOO). After I dropped Aubrey off at the airport, and we said our goodbyes for another three months, I went back to the hotel, checked in for another night, and hoped on one of the computers in the lobby. I was greeted by a screen that said something of the following:
Beware of the Thailand Tailor Scam, people have been making money off this for at least a decade. This is how it works:
A man who speaks English very well approaches tourists on the street and tells them it’s a ‘national holiday’, he then gives them some legitimate information about tourism in the area, but also slips in the name of a tailor. The man then calls another man in on the scam and tells him the appearances of the tourists and the place they seemed most likely to go from his recommendations. The other man then waits at this separate location, and once the tourists arrive, earns their trust by conversation and information about the attraction, once again confirming the supposed holiday. The man then excitedly talks about the tailor casually mentioned before and provides falsified information about a one time only sale for the holiday. The tourists are then tricked into buying counterfeit products from the tailor, usually polyester suits claiming to be cashmere at mark-up prices. The tailoring done is often very poor, and in some cases, the product is never delivered.
My heart sank; my stomach went into my throat. Never have I felt so embarrassed and betrayed. I had been conned. The very people we had met in Bangkok that we believed to be so selfless and nice were really just part of an elaborate scam, which I fell for. I consider both myself and Aubrey to be good tourists. We don’t typically overpay for products; we can usually sense when tours are fake, and we know that if a taxi driver/man on the street offers to take you to his shop, its probably not a good idea to go. I would also say that I am very good at reading people – being able to tell if someone is being sincere or bullshitting. Still, even now, I look back and cannot believe that these men were lying to us. They seemed so honest and genuinely helpful – something I can truly not convey through this blog. But, I had been had. I was alone in Bangkok, no computer of my own, no phone to call someone. I have been alone before, but never had I felt that feeling of loneliness that accompanied my embarrassment. All I could do was go to my room and cry. It wasn’t really even about the suit. It was about the lies. The fact that humanity repeatedly shows me that no stranger can be trusted. That is such a depressing thought, one that I really try my best not to accept as truth.
Now, days later, I consider myself very lucky. My suit actually fits very well and looks good, and the shirts fit better than any I have had before, regardless of their fabric. After researching the scams online, many involving the same tailor shop, most people received a much worse product. I think the only saving grace was the fact that I went in twice for fittings, thus making sure the product I was getting was well made… even if I was not able to tell the difference between cashmere and an imitative synthetic.
The sad part is that after an amazing vacation, this experience left a real sour taste in my mouth. In my last post, I described the Thai as beautiful selfless people, but a great deal of that thought was based off of the two ‘nice’ strangers who had helped us on our way. I am sure this may be still true, but I might not be so quick to feel at home at another place again – a protective, yet very depressing thought.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
If I Stay for 2 Years, Can I Get 1/2 Price?
The streets are busy with tuk-tuks, motorcycles and pedestrians. The alleys are filled with amazing smells from the local flavour of street food. The rivers run through the city, complementing its cultural beauty amongst the expanding urbanization. The people offer smiles and a helping hand for the lost tourists, blank-faced holding a map and trying to pronounce the street names. The city is Bangkok, and it may very well be my most favourite place of all.
Aubrey and I approached Bangkok as a central port between the places we really wanted to go, thinking we would see the things that you “need” to see but spend a great deal of time out of the city. We did not anticipate falling in love with Asia’s urban center. Bangkok is huge, home to nearly 10 million people, yet it is homey. The little markets spread intermittently throughout the city provide a means for small-scale, local shopping. The street vendors sell the most amazing food for next-to-nothing prices. You can get your hands on just about all of the comforts from home we have grown accustomed to. But most importantly, the people of Thailand are beautiful.
The concepts core to Buddhism, peace and selflessness, are evident within those we meet. Unlike other major cities that we have traveled to abroad, people here have helped us just for the sake of helping us. From previous experience, when someone offers to help you carry your bag from the taxi or tells you they’ll show you the way to your destination, you assume it’s for a tip (I can still remember the yells for “baksheesh” in Cairo). Here, people just do those things, bid you a safe journey, and turn around before you would even have a chance to reach for your wallet.
The other thing that has made our travels so enjoyable is that people here haven’t really tried to rip us off because we are tourists. We are quoted the same prices as the locals for the street food, merchandise and tuk-tuk rides – something that was a constant battle in Tanzania and became exhausting towards the end. There is still room for bartering at the markets (which I love), but most of the time the starting price is the same for us as the locals.
The bartering system has led to me buying more things than I would have normally. Aubrey says it is because I am really competitive so I treat it like a game, and I can win if I feel like I get a good price. Sometimes I just want to see how low they will go, and then I just end up buying it because I invested the time, Haha. She also gets frustrated because I would gladly spend five minutes in a stare-down with a vendor to save 30 cents. What she can't seem to grasp is that we not only save the 30 cents, we also won! ☺
I have never found a city outside of Ontario that I wanted to live in rather than just visit. But, we could live here. And someday, we just might…
Aubrey and I approached Bangkok as a central port between the places we really wanted to go, thinking we would see the things that you “need” to see but spend a great deal of time out of the city. We did not anticipate falling in love with Asia’s urban center. Bangkok is huge, home to nearly 10 million people, yet it is homey. The little markets spread intermittently throughout the city provide a means for small-scale, local shopping. The street vendors sell the most amazing food for next-to-nothing prices. You can get your hands on just about all of the comforts from home we have grown accustomed to. But most importantly, the people of Thailand are beautiful.
The concepts core to Buddhism, peace and selflessness, are evident within those we meet. Unlike other major cities that we have traveled to abroad, people here have helped us just for the sake of helping us. From previous experience, when someone offers to help you carry your bag from the taxi or tells you they’ll show you the way to your destination, you assume it’s for a tip (I can still remember the yells for “baksheesh” in Cairo). Here, people just do those things, bid you a safe journey, and turn around before you would even have a chance to reach for your wallet.
The other thing that has made our travels so enjoyable is that people here haven’t really tried to rip us off because we are tourists. We are quoted the same prices as the locals for the street food, merchandise and tuk-tuk rides – something that was a constant battle in Tanzania and became exhausting towards the end. There is still room for bartering at the markets (which I love), but most of the time the starting price is the same for us as the locals.
The bartering system has led to me buying more things than I would have normally. Aubrey says it is because I am really competitive so I treat it like a game, and I can win if I feel like I get a good price. Sometimes I just want to see how low they will go, and then I just end up buying it because I invested the time, Haha. She also gets frustrated because I would gladly spend five minutes in a stare-down with a vendor to save 30 cents. What she can't seem to grasp is that we not only save the 30 cents, we also won! ☺
I have never found a city outside of Ontario that I wanted to live in rather than just visit. But, we could live here. And someday, we just might…
Friday, September 2, 2011
Disorganized Awesomeness
Many people, including Russell Peters, have told me that your first step off the plane in Delhi is accompanied by a rushing “smell of shit directly into your nostrils”. My first step fortunately did not yield poo filled nostrils, however there WAS a glasses-fogging rush of humidity that accompanied the excitement of knowing I had arrived.
Another warning I received many times was to beware of the terrifying driving in Delhi. Yet, throughout my taxi ride to my homestay apartment, I could not stop smiling. The driving was crazy, I admit, but this craziness filled my need for disorganization that hasn’t been satisfied since my time in Tanzania. By the first ten minutes and first three almost-accidents, I could tell that India could become another place to call home.
I arrived in the dark to the place where I will be staying for the next three months – a three bedroom apartment in Vasant Kunj, a district of New Delhi. Krishna, one of the men that work at PHFI, is allowing Malik and I to stay with him during our time there - Malik being another student in my program who will be meeting me in India after my time in Thailand. The apartment is quite nice, your standard size for a three bedroom, and Krishna is great. The morning before I left for Thailand, I woke up early and took a walk around Vasant Kunj. I found it to be a very nice neighbourhood with two parks, two temples, some little stores and a community center with basketball hoops and badminton courts within a minute’s walk of the apartment.
I left India excited to return, knowing that I would find love for a new country once again.
Another warning I received many times was to beware of the terrifying driving in Delhi. Yet, throughout my taxi ride to my homestay apartment, I could not stop smiling. The driving was crazy, I admit, but this craziness filled my need for disorganization that hasn’t been satisfied since my time in Tanzania. By the first ten minutes and first three almost-accidents, I could tell that India could become another place to call home.
I arrived in the dark to the place where I will be staying for the next three months – a three bedroom apartment in Vasant Kunj, a district of New Delhi. Krishna, one of the men that work at PHFI, is allowing Malik and I to stay with him during our time there - Malik being another student in my program who will be meeting me in India after my time in Thailand. The apartment is quite nice, your standard size for a three bedroom, and Krishna is great. The morning before I left for Thailand, I woke up early and took a walk around Vasant Kunj. I found it to be a very nice neighbourhood with two parks, two temples, some little stores and a community center with basketball hoops and badminton courts within a minute’s walk of the apartment.
I left India excited to return, knowing that I would find love for a new country once again.
Friday, August 26, 2011
A Turbulent Caning
I am writing this post while sitting in the Brussels airport – 1/2 way to Delhi! My flight here was quite the experience. All seemed to be going well. There were no crying babies, a good movie selection, the food was decent, and despite being sandwiched in the middle of the middle row, people on either side of me were of slim stature. But, about 20 min before landing, we flew through a crazy storm. Despite it being light out for the previous hour, it all of a sudden got very dark… and that is when we hit the worst turbulence I have ever felt. And so, the babies started crying, my stomach went into my throat, and I gripped the arm rests tightly trying to decide whether to be scared or place my trust in the pilots and enjoy the rollercoaster ride. Then, CRASH… a loud sound accompanied by an incredibly bright flash that illuminated through all the open windows. Did lightning just hit our plane? And that’s when the very nice African man beside me started letting out large moaning noises and gripping his stomach. Through the dips and shakes of the flight, all I could think was, “DO NOT THROW UP ON ME! PLEASE DO NOT THROW UP ON ME!” Finally, the turbulence stopped, and we soared through the dark clouds still seeing the occasional flash of lightning, though much less frightening than before. We landed vomit free in a sea of fog and rain… which left me both impressed with the pilot and concerned that the landing was attempted despite me not being able to see the ground from the windows on either side. Naturally everyone on board let out a sigh of relief when we were safely on the ground and erupted into applause for the fact that we made it through. At least it was exciting!!!
On a different note, one of my favourite parts of traveling is the people watching that is possible in airports. Here are some random things I saw and observed:
-An old Indian women (age estimate: 80 yrs) hacking the biggest lugie known to man in the middle of the airport
-The willingness of travelers to stand in line for 45 minutes to pay 10 Euro for a ham and cheese breakfast sandwich… I elected to go for the 3 Euro Belgian waffles they were selling in duty free.
-An incredible amount of visibly able people electing to be carted between gates in wheelchairs pushed by airport staff or on the back of those annoying beeping vehicles.
-Three consecutive Americans in front of me in the duty free line complaining about the low value of their currency when compared to the Euro to the poor woman working at the cash.... because apparently she controls international exchange rates??
And finally…
-The same old Indian woman hitting her grandson (assumed) with her cane when he tried to pick up her bag for her.
I hope all the old ladies have that much spunk in India!
On a different note, one of my favourite parts of traveling is the people watching that is possible in airports. Here are some random things I saw and observed:
-An old Indian women (age estimate: 80 yrs) hacking the biggest lugie known to man in the middle of the airport
-The willingness of travelers to stand in line for 45 minutes to pay 10 Euro for a ham and cheese breakfast sandwich… I elected to go for the 3 Euro Belgian waffles they were selling in duty free.
-An incredible amount of visibly able people electing to be carted between gates in wheelchairs pushed by airport staff or on the back of those annoying beeping vehicles.
-Three consecutive Americans in front of me in the duty free line complaining about the low value of their currency when compared to the Euro to the poor woman working at the cash.... because apparently she controls international exchange rates??
And finally…
-The same old Indian woman hitting her grandson (assumed) with her cane when he tried to pick up her bag for her.
I hope all the old ladies have that much spunk in India!
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
New Blog, New Adventures
For those of you who have known me for years, you might have read a couple of my posts from my last blog, www.tailsofafrica.blogspot.com. Unfortunately, because my next adventure (the one I leave for in 3 hours) is in Asia, the tails I will be seeing and the tales I will be telling will be of a different nature. Thus, here we are, at a new blog for a new adventure... and for future ones to come. I plan to share the silly things - small day-to-day observations that might make you laugh or cringe or thank your lucky stars you're at home! And, I plan to share big things - the ones that make you feel frustrated, or thankful, or inspired. But most of all, I just want to share my experiences with those I love.
And so, I am ready and packed to start my three and a half month journey! Here is the basic outline for my time to come:
First, I will be traveling to Thailand for 2 weeks with Aubrey who I haven't seen in 3 months. After the most stressful summer of my life - MCAT and O-Chemx2 - we're going to have some much needed R&R on the beach for the first couple of days. Then, it will be north to Chiang Mai for fun with elephants and tigers!!
After we say our goodbyes, to start another 3 months on different continents, I will head back to Delhi, India. There, I will be doing research for the Public Health Foundation of India (www.phfi.org) in the field of animal-human viral transmission. The semester of field work fulfills 5-course requirement within my program - Global Health Specialization within a Bachelor of Health Sciences. So... I will be working, and getting school credit! WOOO! Unfortunately, full tuition is still being paid :(.
Based on the fact that I wrote my MCAT two days ago, I haven't really allowed myself the time necessary to process the fact that I'm leaving. I am excited really, that's all I can say. I hope to share with you my adventures the best I can.
And I'm off... like a herd of yurdles!
And so, I am ready and packed to start my three and a half month journey! Here is the basic outline for my time to come:
First, I will be traveling to Thailand for 2 weeks with Aubrey who I haven't seen in 3 months. After the most stressful summer of my life - MCAT and O-Chemx2 - we're going to have some much needed R&R on the beach for the first couple of days. Then, it will be north to Chiang Mai for fun with elephants and tigers!!
After we say our goodbyes, to start another 3 months on different continents, I will head back to Delhi, India. There, I will be doing research for the Public Health Foundation of India (www.phfi.org) in the field of animal-human viral transmission. The semester of field work fulfills 5-course requirement within my program - Global Health Specialization within a Bachelor of Health Sciences. So... I will be working, and getting school credit! WOOO! Unfortunately, full tuition is still being paid :(.
Based on the fact that I wrote my MCAT two days ago, I haven't really allowed myself the time necessary to process the fact that I'm leaving. I am excited really, that's all I can say. I hope to share with you my adventures the best I can.
And I'm off... like a herd of yurdles!
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