This past week, I traveled to Kerala to see the St. Clare Oral School for the Deaf. It was at the same time, a heart wrenching but awe inspiring experience. The school was conceptualized in 1991 by Mother Provincial Celia, who had gone to Madras. There she happened to see two deaf children talking to each other with actions and other gestures, not official sign language. This event happened in Mylapur, the place where St. Thomas The Apostle of India was martyred and subsequently buried. Seeing these children provided inspiration and insight for Mother Celia. She remembered the great teaching of St. Francis of Assisi and St. Clare who advocated and taught the members of the Franciscan Clarist congregation (a body of internationally renown nuns) that the Sisters should care for and give emphasis for simple life and come forward to help out children, especially those who have disabilities.
Sister Celia soon returned to Kerala. There, she called four of her nuns and shared with them her experience and reminded them of the call of St. Francis and St. Clare. Consequently Sister Phincintta, Sister Abhay, Sister Binsy and Sister Shelmy took up the challenge. Despite the fact that Sister Phincintta had been accepted for further university studies, she set this aside and instead decided to take the lead and studied sign language for one year at the Clarke School for the Deaf in Mylapur. She returned in 1993 and along with her fellow Sisters, formed the St. Clare Oral School for the Deaf. To this day, these four women are the pillars of this school, dedicating their lives to the needs of deaf children.
In the beginning, there was an existing old age home on the property but it was no longer in use. The building was converted and the school opened with eleven students. A hostel was soon required and added in due time. The first student was Rosemore Theampy who came at the age of six and completed her ten plus two (grade twelve). She is now married with a child of her own. In 1994, the school secured the much needed a no-objection certificate from the government, thereby affiliating it with the state. Each year, this affiliation had to be sought for each subsequent grade and finally in 2002 the school was able to attain permanent affiliation with the state board. This made them eligible for partial subsidies for food and teachers. However, there is a trade off because with an affiliation to a state board, there can be no charging of any fees. The only other funds that they receive are from the Sister Provincial and limited donations. In 1996, extensive renovations were completed to add hostel space to the school. The school is now eighteen years old with an enrollment of 175 students, 85 girls and 90 boys.
The children in St. Clare Oral School for the deaf come from a twenty kilometer radius. Deafness is a huge problem in India due to the overuse of pesticides. Parents who are at a loss of what to do with their child often abandon them. Many families come from extreme poverty. One of the girls in the school was found in the forest by the nuns. Another case was sister and brother who were both born deaf and rejected.
The teachers are required to complete their B Ed and special training Diploma for the hearing impaired. Their dedication to the students was very evident as I toured the facility. But they face many challenges. One hundred and forty of the students live in the hostel. The living conditions are crowded and toilet facilities are limited. Many of the children are former orphans or street or railway children. When they are born, each of the parents blames the other, creating a great deal of fighting. Neither parent cares for the child. This wound remains with the child, resulting in a great deal of aggression and stubbornness. In addition, as they cannot hear, they cannot initially understand the teachers and Sister's language. To make matters worse, the children fight a lot with each other because they are unable to express themselves and there are a lot of misunderstandings. At least one Sister needs to remain with the children at all times. Sister Phincintta's bedroom has a window that faces into the boys dormitory so that she can supervise them at night. Sometimes the children have nightmares and shout out. The children are always feeling insecure, especially when the electricity goes out and they cannot see or hear, which is a frequent occurrence in India.
One of the Sisters told me that the students have often told her that children who are born blind are better off than those born deaf. This is because children who are blind cannot see everything around them and therefore there are less doubts and less demands. Whereas a child who can see and not hear can see how things should be and come to realize that they are missing out on life. So they say it is better to be born blind than deaf.
The work of St. Clare Oral School for the Deaf is essential. One of the goals of the school is to provide everything that any child in a normal school would get. Boys, when they graduate out of St. Clare, can consider a job in the trades: welding, aluminum fabrication, typing, or alternatively computer operations. One student has completed his Bachelor of Technology and became an engineer. He does not speak at all, yet did his studies along with all the other regular students in the university program. The girls face more job limitations but are able to work in the fields of fashion design, embroidery, painting, embossing and flower arrangement. With an education, they have better chances of marrying. Often a match will be made with a deaf boy and a deaf girl. Since the inception of the school, five batches of 15-16 students have graduated from tenth grade. They have also excelled at sports, winning national level volleyball and dance competitions.
Perhaps to put it into perspective, we can consider what would happen if they did not have this opportunity. They would be unwanted, a burden to parents, the family and to society. No normal school would accept them. As a result of discouragement, tension and insecurity, they would become violent. Most importantly, they would not be able to get a job, become independent or have any sense of self-worth.
During our visit, we were treated to an exceptional presentation by the students. It included dancing, acting, and a band performance. This band of twenty one students is widely renown, having won the state level competition for the last six years. Because they cannot hear, they are taught rhythm timing visually and through vibration. To conduct, the teacher pats her arm with one hand to indicate the rhythm. The fact that this band has won so many awards is extraordinary as they are not able to correct themselves when they make mistakes. The instructor, therefore, always needs to be there. The students, dressed up in their red and gold uniforms, paraded in front of me in perfect step. A variety of percussion instruments and drums blended together creating the Indian national anthem and a variety of other songs. Afterward, we watched a number of dances and then an incredible play miming various passengers and their antics on an Indian bus. At the end, each of the 140 students in the hostel came up to thank me for coming. Some had distorted speech but many were able to enunciate well.
Before I left, I gave a donation from the India Village Poverty Relief Fund for 40,000 Rupees, about one thousand dollars. This will be used for supplies for the school. But there is much more to be done. The school is in need of funds for clothes and items for the children. The school is also in need of chemistry and audio visual labs to further enhance the learning. The audio visual lab needs be able to accommodate 25 students and have a sound proof room (a government requirement), a home theater system and an LCD projector. Both of these lab buildings need to be constructed. As you can see, there is a lot that we can do, if we are able.
I was able to spend one entire day with one of the deaf children. This young man, Joseph, is the son of my host family in Kerala. I am still haunted by the beseeching look in his eyes. He wanted desperately to be able to participate in daily family life and connect with those around him. Instead, he lives on the fringe, like a shadow,in his own insular world. But through education and life with his peers, he can gain fulfillment and a feeling of inclusion in society. The St. Clare Oral School for the deaf needs our support. Please consider donating to the India Village Poverty Relief Fund during the Christmas season so that together we can make a difference.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Stonewalled
Stonewalled
My stomach grumbled and I had to pee badly. The heat beat down in a mid morning haze. I felt discombobulated, a feeling that I sometimes get when I am traveling. Nevertheless, after Mom and I had finished our purchases at Fab India, I climbed onto my rental scooter to drive home. “Come with me, Mom,” I encouraged my mother. “Nope, I'd rather walk,” she replied. “Okay, I'll see you at home.”
Mom stood while I turned my scooter around and started the engine. Cautiously, I eyed the traffic on both sides. Driving on the opposite side of the road to home was still weird to me. The road was empty
except for motorcycle in the distance. I inched out and began to turn into the left hand lane on the other side of the road. To this day, I'll never know exactly what happened. I remember trying to turn the scooter, it not responding, giving it some gas, speeding up. The next thing I knew I was crashing into a cement wall. The crunch of plastic jolted me as I scraped along the side. My glasses flew off and something tore at my ear. I ground to a halt. Numb. Shaking. I heard my mother screaming in the distance, “Chris, Chris.” She nearly got hit trying to get across the road to me. Dazed, I hopped off my scooter and frantically began searching for my eight hundred dollar glasses. Men came running from all directions. I found my glasses intact, thank God, shoved them on my face and then touched my hand to my left ear. Blood. Flesh dangling where my gold earring used to be. Shit.
“Where's my earring? I must find my earring,” I said. One sweet man who works at the bank across the road scrounged the grass for five minutes as I stood there in shock. “Here, Mam,” he smiled as he handed it to me. “Thank you,” I whispered shakily. Another Indian man handed me two Kleenex for my bleeding ear. Mom was in hysterics, crying. “Stop Mom, I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm okay.” I tried to console her even though my ear was lopped off. Meanwhile another man parked my scooter on the side of the road, handed me the key and pointed me in the direction of a government clinic.
Mom and I started off down the road with me clutching my ear with the Kleenex that Mom thought was for tears. We walked and walked. I felt a little faint. I promised my traumatized mother that I would never get back on the scooter. She is particularly paranoid after having had an accident herself in Goaa. “It's not worth it, Mom. I'll get rid of the bike. It's just not worth it.” Tearfully, my mother agreed.
At the clinic, there was a huge lineup at a curtained door. “You have to get a paper,” we are informed. Mom went off to get it while I waited. She asked at the office for a paper. The woman at the desk said, “the papers are finished.” “But we need a paper,” Mom said. “Go stand in line,” she was told. Mom came back but not without first sticking her head in the curtain door. “My daughter has had an accident.” The doctor inside told her to go to the Doctors Room. We saw a room that said 'Doctors Room' – some sort of room with a desk, a chair and a bed. We sat there for five minutes. A nurse came along and says, “This is the doctor's room. You are not to be sitting in here. Go over there,” she pointed to a bench in the hall.
We sat on the bench. I was still clutching my ear and feeling faint. More and more sick people were straggling in. An opaqued door opened across from us and we noticed a sign above it says EX room. Mom said again, “My daughter has had an accident. Her ear has been lopped off.” A cute Indian doctor replied, “Tell her to come in here,” and calmly slid the opaque door closed behind me. My mother sat and looked at the shadows behind the door. A few minutes later the opaque door opened again and Mom saw my feet on the end of a stretcher. The door closed again. Time passed as I received fourteen, I mean four stitches to my lopped off ear. My left collar bone had swollen up and become black and blue but nothing was broken. Mom continued to wait outside. Much later, when the cute doctor came out, Mom wished that her ear had been lopped off. She was even more impressed when he thought that she was my sister. Mom vowed to herself that when I go back to have my dressing changed, she will come along. She might even tint her eyebrows.
I walked out of the clinic with a bandaged ear. Mom thought it would bring me more sympathy but to me it was a reminder of the blow to my ego. Worried that I am about to collapse, my ashen face and stricken look distressing my mother, she called our friend Sukhminder who came in his jeep. He took one look at me and said, “Come on. Sturdy frame like you. What's your problem? Get back on the bike.”
Sukhi drove us home in his jeep. Before that, Mom stopped to pick up my penicillin and antiseptic cream. Fortunately I had recently had a tetanus shot because you never know what was on that cement wall where my ear was lopped off.
One week later, we headed back to the clinic. We arrived at nine o'clock as instructed. It was series of lineups. First the paper. I paid twenty rupees for the treatment and got my paper, which is now my personal file that I am to keep just in case I end up in the hospital again in Goa. God forbid. Then we headed back to the curtained door to line up. On the way, my mother stuck her head in the opaque door again seeking the gorgeous doctor's sympathy. He looked up from reading his paper and said, “we're not open until nine thirty.” To which my mother said, “ My daughter is here. You know the one.” To which he replied. “Nine-thirty.” Now she was glad she didn't tint her eyebrows. We waited and waited, struggled to keep our place in line as others attempted to jump the queue. Finally I got in to see the first doctor who proclaimed me healed and sent me to the opaque door to get my stitches removed. The handsome doctor greeted me, scolding, “You did not come back to get your dressing changed.” Sheepishly I responded, “I know. I was able to do it myself.” “Protocol must be followed,” he chided me. Fifteen minutes later, not without some struggle, he finally took out the last of the stitches and instructed me not to wear earrings for next two months. Yah right.
Meanwhile, all week Mom and I discussed back and forth whether or not I should get back on the scooter. For five days it was in the shop getting repaired. It needed a new headlight, a new steering column and the handlebars were twisted. In the meantime, one day we saw a horrendous accident where a guy on a scooter was crushed between a stone wall and a local bus. Rumor had it that he did not survive as we watched the ambulance pull away. “That's it,” Sukhi, who was with us, said. “You're not getting back on the bike. It's too dangerous here.” I left the scooter at the repair shop and he and a friend picked it up for me. Part of me was a little disappointed to not get to ride it more but I realized that perhaps this was not the place for me to learn to drive a two-wheeler. I'll wait until I get back to Canada to do that.
My stomach grumbled and I had to pee badly. The heat beat down in a mid morning haze. I felt discombobulated, a feeling that I sometimes get when I am traveling. Nevertheless, after Mom and I had finished our purchases at Fab India, I climbed onto my rental scooter to drive home. “Come with me, Mom,” I encouraged my mother. “Nope, I'd rather walk,” she replied. “Okay, I'll see you at home.”
Mom stood while I turned my scooter around and started the engine. Cautiously, I eyed the traffic on both sides. Driving on the opposite side of the road to home was still weird to me. The road was empty
except for motorcycle in the distance. I inched out and began to turn into the left hand lane on the other side of the road. To this day, I'll never know exactly what happened. I remember trying to turn the scooter, it not responding, giving it some gas, speeding up. The next thing I knew I was crashing into a cement wall. The crunch of plastic jolted me as I scraped along the side. My glasses flew off and something tore at my ear. I ground to a halt. Numb. Shaking. I heard my mother screaming in the distance, “Chris, Chris.” She nearly got hit trying to get across the road to me. Dazed, I hopped off my scooter and frantically began searching for my eight hundred dollar glasses. Men came running from all directions. I found my glasses intact, thank God, shoved them on my face and then touched my hand to my left ear. Blood. Flesh dangling where my gold earring used to be. Shit.
“Where's my earring? I must find my earring,” I said. One sweet man who works at the bank across the road scrounged the grass for five minutes as I stood there in shock. “Here, Mam,” he smiled as he handed it to me. “Thank you,” I whispered shakily. Another Indian man handed me two Kleenex for my bleeding ear. Mom was in hysterics, crying. “Stop Mom, I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm okay.” I tried to console her even though my ear was lopped off. Meanwhile another man parked my scooter on the side of the road, handed me the key and pointed me in the direction of a government clinic.
Mom and I started off down the road with me clutching my ear with the Kleenex that Mom thought was for tears. We walked and walked. I felt a little faint. I promised my traumatized mother that I would never get back on the scooter. She is particularly paranoid after having had an accident herself in Goaa. “It's not worth it, Mom. I'll get rid of the bike. It's just not worth it.” Tearfully, my mother agreed.
At the clinic, there was a huge lineup at a curtained door. “You have to get a paper,” we are informed. Mom went off to get it while I waited. She asked at the office for a paper. The woman at the desk said, “the papers are finished.” “But we need a paper,” Mom said. “Go stand in line,” she was told. Mom came back but not without first sticking her head in the curtain door. “My daughter has had an accident.” The doctor inside told her to go to the Doctors Room. We saw a room that said 'Doctors Room' – some sort of room with a desk, a chair and a bed. We sat there for five minutes. A nurse came along and says, “This is the doctor's room. You are not to be sitting in here. Go over there,” she pointed to a bench in the hall.
We sat on the bench. I was still clutching my ear and feeling faint. More and more sick people were straggling in. An opaqued door opened across from us and we noticed a sign above it says EX room. Mom said again, “My daughter has had an accident. Her ear has been lopped off.” A cute Indian doctor replied, “Tell her to come in here,” and calmly slid the opaque door closed behind me. My mother sat and looked at the shadows behind the door. A few minutes later the opaque door opened again and Mom saw my feet on the end of a stretcher. The door closed again. Time passed as I received fourteen, I mean four stitches to my lopped off ear. My left collar bone had swollen up and become black and blue but nothing was broken. Mom continued to wait outside. Much later, when the cute doctor came out, Mom wished that her ear had been lopped off. She was even more impressed when he thought that she was my sister. Mom vowed to herself that when I go back to have my dressing changed, she will come along. She might even tint her eyebrows.
I walked out of the clinic with a bandaged ear. Mom thought it would bring me more sympathy but to me it was a reminder of the blow to my ego. Worried that I am about to collapse, my ashen face and stricken look distressing my mother, she called our friend Sukhminder who came in his jeep. He took one look at me and said, “Come on. Sturdy frame like you. What's your problem? Get back on the bike.”
Sukhi drove us home in his jeep. Before that, Mom stopped to pick up my penicillin and antiseptic cream. Fortunately I had recently had a tetanus shot because you never know what was on that cement wall where my ear was lopped off.
One week later, we headed back to the clinic. We arrived at nine o'clock as instructed. It was series of lineups. First the paper. I paid twenty rupees for the treatment and got my paper, which is now my personal file that I am to keep just in case I end up in the hospital again in Goa. God forbid. Then we headed back to the curtained door to line up. On the way, my mother stuck her head in the opaque door again seeking the gorgeous doctor's sympathy. He looked up from reading his paper and said, “we're not open until nine thirty.” To which my mother said, “ My daughter is here. You know the one.” To which he replied. “Nine-thirty.” Now she was glad she didn't tint her eyebrows. We waited and waited, struggled to keep our place in line as others attempted to jump the queue. Finally I got in to see the first doctor who proclaimed me healed and sent me to the opaque door to get my stitches removed. The handsome doctor greeted me, scolding, “You did not come back to get your dressing changed.” Sheepishly I responded, “I know. I was able to do it myself.” “Protocol must be followed,” he chided me. Fifteen minutes later, not without some struggle, he finally took out the last of the stitches and instructed me not to wear earrings for next two months. Yah right.
Meanwhile, all week Mom and I discussed back and forth whether or not I should get back on the scooter. For five days it was in the shop getting repaired. It needed a new headlight, a new steering column and the handlebars were twisted. In the meantime, one day we saw a horrendous accident where a guy on a scooter was crushed between a stone wall and a local bus. Rumor had it that he did not survive as we watched the ambulance pull away. “That's it,” Sukhi, who was with us, said. “You're not getting back on the bike. It's too dangerous here.” I left the scooter at the repair shop and he and a friend picked it up for me. Part of me was a little disappointed to not get to ride it more but I realized that perhaps this was not the place for me to learn to drive a two-wheeler. I'll wait until I get back to Canada to do that.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Herbert the Rat
It all started with rat droppings. Not little droppings but big droppings. Turds in fact. Our fears were confirmed when one morning a whole banana was eaten down to the skin. My mother and I knew we had a big one on our hands. “We're going to have to do something about this,” Mom said. But what to do? We went to a hole in the wall shop that we thought had everything but it had no rat poison. Thinking in our Western way, we then thought we needed a hardware shop. But there are none. We tried an electrical store. Not to electrocute Herbert but thinking the shop might have rat poison. Are you ready for this? We were told to go to a pharmacy. Really? A pharmacy? For rat poison? Yes. So off we marched to a pharmacy- an open fronted store, lined up with people. One English woman was buying either a ten year supply of Viagra or maybe she was taking it home to all her friends. Some people, (should have been us) were buying pills for constipation. (We never thought that we would wish for diarrhea like we do now.) Finally our turn came. My mother stepped up proudly and said, “ We need rat poison.” Without a sideways glance, the chemist rummaged around in a drawer and brought out a box of rat poison the size of a half pound of butter. On the cover, it advertised that one feeding kills. (It makes one feel mean but what to do?)
Needless to say, my mother didn't read the instructions and put out half the cake of poison the first night. We thought, this will do it. This will definitely do it. To be sure it would work, she put the poison in the fruit bowl. We didn't want to confuse the rat. We came into the kitchen the next morning and the whole piece had been carried away, leaving just a turd or two to tell us that he had been there. We thought, great, that has really done the trick. I imagined Herbert lying belly up somewhere, with all fours pointing heavenward. Little did we know. We went to sleep that night feeling secure. We even left out a bowl of fruit. But alas, the next morning, half a mango was gone. Oh my god, we didn't get Herbert yet. Back to the drawing board. My mother picked up the box of rat poison and this time read the instructions- only to discover that there are twenty squares in the box and only one square needed to be put out. Man, that is some rat.
Half the box was gone already, she had given ten squares on the first night. So we tried again. Carefully put the fruit bowl on the floor and placed five squares in the bowl for good measure. Slept on edge, listening. In the morning, same deal. No poison remained. Two to three turd offering left in return. And then, shockingly my mother yelled, “Chris, there are turds in my bed.” I replied, “that's because you have a double bed. I only have a single bed. There is no room for Herbert in my bed.” After much discussion on the subject, we decided that the turds most probably got there off her feet. Yuck.
Now before this story goes any further, I want you to know that we are not talking about a mouse. These turds are one inch long. The reason that we know it is a rat is because one night I saw something big and furry scramble out the door. Can you imagine how you'd feel like with that in your bed? Not to mention that Herbert sometimes comes in during the day when we had gone out, despite the fact that we close all the doors and windows and remember, our flat is three floors up. Mom and I have discussed at length whether Herbert is having a party with his roommates. Maybe he is sending his cousins? Or are we entertaining one individual guest? Going into the kitchen in the middle of the night is daunting. And we are now on our third package of poison. Mom says that if he doesn't leave soon, we are going to raise his rent. The saga continues.
Needless to say, my mother didn't read the instructions and put out half the cake of poison the first night. We thought, this will do it. This will definitely do it. To be sure it would work, she put the poison in the fruit bowl. We didn't want to confuse the rat. We came into the kitchen the next morning and the whole piece had been carried away, leaving just a turd or two to tell us that he had been there. We thought, great, that has really done the trick. I imagined Herbert lying belly up somewhere, with all fours pointing heavenward. Little did we know. We went to sleep that night feeling secure. We even left out a bowl of fruit. But alas, the next morning, half a mango was gone. Oh my god, we didn't get Herbert yet. Back to the drawing board. My mother picked up the box of rat poison and this time read the instructions- only to discover that there are twenty squares in the box and only one square needed to be put out. Man, that is some rat.
Half the box was gone already, she had given ten squares on the first night. So we tried again. Carefully put the fruit bowl on the floor and placed five squares in the bowl for good measure. Slept on edge, listening. In the morning, same deal. No poison remained. Two to three turd offering left in return. And then, shockingly my mother yelled, “Chris, there are turds in my bed.” I replied, “that's because you have a double bed. I only have a single bed. There is no room for Herbert in my bed.” After much discussion on the subject, we decided that the turds most probably got there off her feet. Yuck.
Now before this story goes any further, I want you to know that we are not talking about a mouse. These turds are one inch long. The reason that we know it is a rat is because one night I saw something big and furry scramble out the door. Can you imagine how you'd feel like with that in your bed? Not to mention that Herbert sometimes comes in during the day when we had gone out, despite the fact that we close all the doors and windows and remember, our flat is three floors up. Mom and I have discussed at length whether Herbert is having a party with his roommates. Maybe he is sending his cousins? Or are we entertaining one individual guest? Going into the kitchen in the middle of the night is daunting. And we are now on our third package of poison. Mom says that if he doesn't leave soon, we are going to raise his rent. The saga continues.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
The Plastic Bottle
Last week, my Mom and I noticed hundreds of cardboard cases being unloaded from big truck into our neighbors flat. Curious, we asked him what they were. “I'm selling bottles of water now,” the young entrepreneur explained. “Great. We'll take 12,” my Mom exclaimed. “But that's heavy, no?” she added. “No worries,” he said. “I'll deliver it.” Twelve bottles came up three flights of stairs. We handed him one hundred rupees for the 90 rupee case. As he fished around for the ten rupees change, Mom said, “Forget it, delivery charges.” And thus begins the cycle of many empty plastic bottles. But I will only tell you about one bottle in particular.
Within no time, I began to fret about the garbage that we were creating. Garbage pickup is virtually nonexistent here. However, when it comes to bottles, it is a different story. Yesterday, Mom threw one of our empties over the balcony. I cringed with guilt. “Don't worry, Chris,” she said. “Haven't you seen the women who come along in the morning with their huge nylon sacks to collect plastic and glass to sell to recycling? You watch.”
From three stories up the bottle gleamed on the asphalt road. It laid there all alone, abandoned. Suddenly I heard a noise. A boy was kicking the bottle down the road, running after it, kicking it again, running, kicking, running. At the end of the lane, he tired of the game and left it lying on the side of the road. It laid there, abandoned again, waiting.
A barefooted woman in a sari tied up like a dhoti came along and picked up the bottle. She immediately went to the tap in our compound and filled it up with water. Carrying it home to her reed hut, she began to chop some wood and light a fire with dried moss. She measured out half milk and half water from the bottle and added some tea leaves. Within minutes, she squatted with the man of the house, perhaps her husband, brother or son and together, they drank their hot chai in thick clear glasses.
Before long,the man of the house hurried down the road with the other half of the bottle of water, heading into the jungle for his daily bowel movement. Now I know why he needs the bottle, but in case you don't I will explain. He fastidiously wiped his bum with his left hand and then used the water to carefully wash his fingers, making sure that nothing had been caught under his nails. Hence why you only eat food with your right hand in India.
I hate to tell you but the fated bottle came back to the reed house, too valuable to be tossed. The woman in the worn sari rushed back to the water tap. The next day, however, that precious bottle was needed again. Their son had come down with a fever. She took the empty bottle to a local dukhan and sold it to the shopkeeper. With her one rupee, she bought a pill for her son.
Fortunately for the bottle, it was still undamaged. Its lid still intact. A worker from the dukhan took the bottle to the petrol station and filled it with gas. For half a day, the bottle proudly sat on a table by the road, glistening in the sun. A timely maneuver, because in the late afternoon, a woman with red hair pulled up on her scooter, low on gas. The bottle glugged its amber liquid into the tank. The woman paid for the precious bottle of gas and drove off in a hurry. Meanwhile, the bottle has been thrown onto the ground. Is this the end of the bottle's journey? I doubt it because it has still not been picked up by the woman with the nylon bag.
Within no time, I began to fret about the garbage that we were creating. Garbage pickup is virtually nonexistent here. However, when it comes to bottles, it is a different story. Yesterday, Mom threw one of our empties over the balcony. I cringed with guilt. “Don't worry, Chris,” she said. “Haven't you seen the women who come along in the morning with their huge nylon sacks to collect plastic and glass to sell to recycling? You watch.”
From three stories up the bottle gleamed on the asphalt road. It laid there all alone, abandoned. Suddenly I heard a noise. A boy was kicking the bottle down the road, running after it, kicking it again, running, kicking, running. At the end of the lane, he tired of the game and left it lying on the side of the road. It laid there, abandoned again, waiting.
A barefooted woman in a sari tied up like a dhoti came along and picked up the bottle. She immediately went to the tap in our compound and filled it up with water. Carrying it home to her reed hut, she began to chop some wood and light a fire with dried moss. She measured out half milk and half water from the bottle and added some tea leaves. Within minutes, she squatted with the man of the house, perhaps her husband, brother or son and together, they drank their hot chai in thick clear glasses.
Before long,the man of the house hurried down the road with the other half of the bottle of water, heading into the jungle for his daily bowel movement. Now I know why he needs the bottle, but in case you don't I will explain. He fastidiously wiped his bum with his left hand and then used the water to carefully wash his fingers, making sure that nothing had been caught under his nails. Hence why you only eat food with your right hand in India.
I hate to tell you but the fated bottle came back to the reed house, too valuable to be tossed. The woman in the worn sari rushed back to the water tap. The next day, however, that precious bottle was needed again. Their son had come down with a fever. She took the empty bottle to a local dukhan and sold it to the shopkeeper. With her one rupee, she bought a pill for her son.
Fortunately for the bottle, it was still undamaged. Its lid still intact. A worker from the dukhan took the bottle to the petrol station and filled it with gas. For half a day, the bottle proudly sat on a table by the road, glistening in the sun. A timely maneuver, because in the late afternoon, a woman with red hair pulled up on her scooter, low on gas. The bottle glugged its amber liquid into the tank. The woman paid for the precious bottle of gas and drove off in a hurry. Meanwhile, the bottle has been thrown onto the ground. Is this the end of the bottle's journey? I doubt it because it has still not been picked up by the woman with the nylon bag.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Bangladesh
After ten days in Kathmandu, we repacked our bags and headed for yet another airport to fly to Bangladesh. I had some work to complete there for both my social justice work and also the book that I am currently working on. Arriving at the airport entrance and before we could enter, our luggage had to be screened at an x ray machine. The next step was check in, sending off our x-rayed luggage. All our hand luggage was tagged. The next stage...more x-rays. But thank God, there was a woman’s line as the man's stretched way back. The technician rifled through my bag, then waved me on. Just when we thought we were finished, we had to go to a long table and in front of some women guards, every single item in our carry on bags had to be taken out. With great curiosity, the women looked at our belongings and asked to what various things were for. One Nepali woman opened up the fold-able wooden frame of my mosquito net and tried to figure out how it would work. Mom's surgical tape was taken away from her. Remember the tags we had to put on in the beginning. They all got stamped.
Next, we were herded into a nondescript room. There were many gates but non the less, we were all herded towards the same gate, irregardless of the flight destination. We watched people straggling in late for their Delhi flight. We knew why, the horrendously long inspection line. Mom and I sat and wondered how we would know when our flight was boarding. There was no loud speaker. Suddenly hundreds of young men, possibly migrant workers, rushed for the boarding gate door. As we found out, it was our flight and so we joined the crowd. I've never seen so many people try to squeeze through a doorway. Unbelievable pushing and shoving. A frustrated airport worker yelled at the boys to get into line, but it continued to be pandemonium.
Eventually we made it through the door. Going up the airplane steps, the same boys pushed and shoved, instead of going two by two. I clung to my mother to make sure that she was not tripped. Finally we got to our seats and sat down with a huge sigh. Our flight was only an hour but the whole process took much longer. Mom decided to go to the bathroom only to discover that the doors on both toilets of this big Airbus 310 did not shut and were hanging on one hinge. She came back to her seat holding her pee. Meanwhile one of the young boys went in, and my mother imagined him standing there holding the door with one hand and his penis in the other. The migrant workers did not care that the door did not shut and were soon lining up to use the toilet. Mom and I wondered if they had ever been on a plane before. One of them bravely tried sitting down in first class but was shooed out. Perhaps he thought that it was like getting on a bus.
And hour later, we arrived in Bangladesh. It was incredibly hot. Thirty-three degrees at nine at night. Luckily, we were picked up at the airport by our air conditioned hotel taxi and headed into the city. The highway was ultra modern, with six lanes. But the traffic jam was unbelievable. Bumper to bumper. “It is always like this,” our young driver informed us.
Finally we arrived at our hotel exhausted. Mom and I yearned for a drink. Couldn't wait to have a black Russian. Would even settle for a gin and tonic without ice. At reception, Mom immediately asked the guy "Where is the bar?" She was given a grave look. "No bar here, Madame." "Okay, where is one?" I replied. "Not possible," they said. "Well, how about the restaurant, they must serve alcohol?" "Not possible Madame." We checked into our room. Mom nose dived for the mini bar. She opened it expecting little bottles of booze, but alas it was clean as a whistle. Ask me how much we wished we had brought something from Nepal.
We went downhill from here. In this hotel, it was all men, very patronizing, very uncomfortable. Being women of action, Mom and I decided immediately to change hotels the next morning. We read about another hotel in Lonely Planet in another section of town and after breakfast, off we went.
After much looking, we found the place. The man at reception immediately shoved us into a dingy room on second floor without so much as a "what would you like?" We queried, “Do you have a room available?” "We will get you a room after some time,” he replied. Meanwhile we looked around the dingy room where they had parked us. Can you imagine what this room looked like? Mold everywhere, all over the walls, the toilet didn't flush, oppressive. As if that was not bad enough, the reception guy kept coming up with the card in his hand for us to sign. "No, we will sign only when we get a room," we insisted, not wanting to commit. At one point, Mom went downstairs to check the progress of the room and reception said," Go back to your room.” Back in the room, Mom and I looked at each other and said “Let's get the hell out of here.” But we did not know where to go, so we bravely left our bags locked in the room, got a rickshaw and after some hunting, found a lovely safe hotel for only ten dollars more per night. Frantically, we rushed back for our bags. Back up to the room, past now three men at reception. We carried down our heavy backpacks and ran out the door. The men all followed us out to the rickshaw, demanding to know where we are going. But without a word, we fled the scene.
But that is not all. Later the same day, we went by cab, then rickshaw down to Old Dhaka to see the waterfront. Still no women in sight. It was horrendous. Every time we stopped there were crowds of men around us. Mom tried to take some photos by the water for her work. I kept a watchful eye on the men watching her. We were constantly yelled at, harassed and bullied. The second rickshaw ride turned out to be disaster as he wanted more money than was due. We went into a shop. He followed us in, (we are only women after all). The rickshaw walla told a man in there that he wanted more money from us. Mom was standing about five feet away from this man who looked her in the eye and said "You come here." Mom looked him in the eye and said "Why would I go there? If you want to talk to me, you come here." Meanwhile, I was observing the stand off. “Come on, Mom, let's get out of here.” We ducked into another shop, desperately trying to melt into the crowd. No luck. The rickshaw walla followed us in there too. Much to Mom's chagrin, I gave him the money to get rid of him. The absolute glee in that man's face astounded us. He had yet again pushed a woman around and a foreigner at that.
With the assistance of a kind old man, we were quickly walked to a taxi stand and got out of there. Back in our hotel, we immediately decided to leave this male dominated country. The contacts that I was supposed to meet with had fallen through and there was no reason to stay. Within ten hours we were on a flight to Goa. I'll never forget the feeling of animosity towards us, and the incredible feeling of being a non-being that I encountered there and how two seasoned world travelers were brought to their knees.
Next, we were herded into a nondescript room. There were many gates but non the less, we were all herded towards the same gate, irregardless of the flight destination. We watched people straggling in late for their Delhi flight. We knew why, the horrendously long inspection line. Mom and I sat and wondered how we would know when our flight was boarding. There was no loud speaker. Suddenly hundreds of young men, possibly migrant workers, rushed for the boarding gate door. As we found out, it was our flight and so we joined the crowd. I've never seen so many people try to squeeze through a doorway. Unbelievable pushing and shoving. A frustrated airport worker yelled at the boys to get into line, but it continued to be pandemonium.
Eventually we made it through the door. Going up the airplane steps, the same boys pushed and shoved, instead of going two by two. I clung to my mother to make sure that she was not tripped. Finally we got to our seats and sat down with a huge sigh. Our flight was only an hour but the whole process took much longer. Mom decided to go to the bathroom only to discover that the doors on both toilets of this big Airbus 310 did not shut and were hanging on one hinge. She came back to her seat holding her pee. Meanwhile one of the young boys went in, and my mother imagined him standing there holding the door with one hand and his penis in the other. The migrant workers did not care that the door did not shut and were soon lining up to use the toilet. Mom and I wondered if they had ever been on a plane before. One of them bravely tried sitting down in first class but was shooed out. Perhaps he thought that it was like getting on a bus.
And hour later, we arrived in Bangladesh. It was incredibly hot. Thirty-three degrees at nine at night. Luckily, we were picked up at the airport by our air conditioned hotel taxi and headed into the city. The highway was ultra modern, with six lanes. But the traffic jam was unbelievable. Bumper to bumper. “It is always like this,” our young driver informed us.
Finally we arrived at our hotel exhausted. Mom and I yearned for a drink. Couldn't wait to have a black Russian. Would even settle for a gin and tonic without ice. At reception, Mom immediately asked the guy "Where is the bar?" She was given a grave look. "No bar here, Madame." "Okay, where is one?" I replied. "Not possible," they said. "Well, how about the restaurant, they must serve alcohol?" "Not possible Madame." We checked into our room. Mom nose dived for the mini bar. She opened it expecting little bottles of booze, but alas it was clean as a whistle. Ask me how much we wished we had brought something from Nepal.
We went downhill from here. In this hotel, it was all men, very patronizing, very uncomfortable. Being women of action, Mom and I decided immediately to change hotels the next morning. We read about another hotel in Lonely Planet in another section of town and after breakfast, off we went.
After much looking, we found the place. The man at reception immediately shoved us into a dingy room on second floor without so much as a "what would you like?" We queried, “Do you have a room available?” "We will get you a room after some time,” he replied. Meanwhile we looked around the dingy room where they had parked us. Can you imagine what this room looked like? Mold everywhere, all over the walls, the toilet didn't flush, oppressive. As if that was not bad enough, the reception guy kept coming up with the card in his hand for us to sign. "No, we will sign only when we get a room," we insisted, not wanting to commit. At one point, Mom went downstairs to check the progress of the room and reception said," Go back to your room.” Back in the room, Mom and I looked at each other and said “Let's get the hell out of here.” But we did not know where to go, so we bravely left our bags locked in the room, got a rickshaw and after some hunting, found a lovely safe hotel for only ten dollars more per night. Frantically, we rushed back for our bags. Back up to the room, past now three men at reception. We carried down our heavy backpacks and ran out the door. The men all followed us out to the rickshaw, demanding to know where we are going. But without a word, we fled the scene.
But that is not all. Later the same day, we went by cab, then rickshaw down to Old Dhaka to see the waterfront. Still no women in sight. It was horrendous. Every time we stopped there were crowds of men around us. Mom tried to take some photos by the water for her work. I kept a watchful eye on the men watching her. We were constantly yelled at, harassed and bullied. The second rickshaw ride turned out to be disaster as he wanted more money than was due. We went into a shop. He followed us in, (we are only women after all). The rickshaw walla told a man in there that he wanted more money from us. Mom was standing about five feet away from this man who looked her in the eye and said "You come here." Mom looked him in the eye and said "Why would I go there? If you want to talk to me, you come here." Meanwhile, I was observing the stand off. “Come on, Mom, let's get out of here.” We ducked into another shop, desperately trying to melt into the crowd. No luck. The rickshaw walla followed us in there too. Much to Mom's chagrin, I gave him the money to get rid of him. The absolute glee in that man's face astounded us. He had yet again pushed a woman around and a foreigner at that.
With the assistance of a kind old man, we were quickly walked to a taxi stand and got out of there. Back in our hotel, we immediately decided to leave this male dominated country. The contacts that I was supposed to meet with had fallen through and there was no reason to stay. Within ten hours we were on a flight to Goa. I'll never forget the feeling of animosity towards us, and the incredible feeling of being a non-being that I encountered there and how two seasoned world travelers were brought to their knees.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Nepal
After a grueling trip from Istanbul (I was incredibly ill with the worst migraine of my life), we arrived around ten o'clock in the morning, sans luggage. Our connection in Doha was too short and the baggage exchange unsuccessful. Nevertheless, we check into the Kantipur Temple House- a former temple turned hotel. I have always loved mogul architecture and chose this hotel for it's ornate work. Four stories high with a roof top balcony, it has many beautiful gardens to sit in. Little lamps with oil line the edges of the walls. In the entrance courtyard a large temple bell awaits clanging, perhaps for a call for dinner? A Buddha statue sits in a raised enclosed balcony. A variety of trees, all meticulously labeled grow despite the dust that falls daily in this grimy city. And the staff are very friendly.
We spend some days in the city adjusting to being in Asia. It is a big change from Europe. Dusty roads, chaotic traffic, and air pollution. Kathmandu reminds me of being in Mexico city. Both cities lie in low valleys, trapping the air. Strangely, all this chaos is refreshing for us after being in Europe. Our senses are heightened as we dodge traffic and walk the narrow streets. We wander around Durbur square where former kings and queens were crowned and legitimized. It is the heart of the old town and filled with temples, terraced platforms and statues. Sadus approach us asking for money. Vendors too numerous to count try to sell us whatever trinket they are flogging, including flutes, tiger balm and jewelery. We soon tire of the bombardment and head back to our hotel.
After a couple of days, we decide to make a three day trip to Pokhara. Excited to get out of smoggy Kathmandu, we start out eagerly at seven am to catch our bus. We have paid five hundred rupees each for a non-air conditioned bus. There are about ten foreigners on the bus while the others were locals who I'm sure did not pay the same price. We start out merrily and in great spirits. For the first two hours we chatted and watched never-ending traffic. Eventually we leave the city limits and head into the hills, dashing along at the high speed of twenty kilometers an hour. A caravan of trucks travel in both directions. One truck decides to turn around in the middle of the road, holding up traffic on both sides oft the mountain pass.
For hours, I stare out the window. Women wash clothes in the mountain streams, carry water on their heads. Others pound rocks into gravel for the road construction that was underway.
The only men that I see are playing cards under trees. How did this division of labour come to be, I wonder. Our bus weaves through valleys, one after the other, up and down, passing beautiful lush steep terraces growing corn, wheat and okra. Banana trees border the road. Pokhara is five hundred meters below Kathmandu so the river that we are following is traveling in the same direction as us. As the river widens, there are more and more suspension bridges. Most are walkable. Others are just a suspension line with a rickety wooden basket dangling precariously. I shiver at the thought of falling into the rushing river gorge below.
As the heat heightens, our spirits begin to wane. If we keep the windows open, the dust flies in our faces; if we close it, we cook. At eleven o'clock, the bus makes a pit stop and we have to pay five rupees to pee in a latrine. And that payment does not ensure a clean venue. Need I say more. Afterward, I buy some bananas and a cucumber for a snack. Twenty minutes later, back on the bus. The heat grows. Mom dozes off intermittently, her head lolling with every curve. I grow lethargic, the sweat pouring down my back. After six hours, Mom and I decide that we will fly back to Kathmandu instead of taking the bus back.
After seven hours, we arrive in Pokhara through the industrial section. A city of 171,000. Pokhara is renown for a lovely lake and incredible mountain views. We get down from the bus and look for our prearranged hotel pickup. We've found that doing this eliminates a lot of tasseling from taxi drivers wanting a fare. Our glee at arriving turns to misery when we check into our hotel that is extremely isolated and up a road that is barely passable. But we are so exhausted that we don't have the energy to do anything about it today. We make the best of it until the morning when we change hotels.
One of the highlights of Pokhara over the next two days will be visiting the Tibetan village of Tashi Palkhel. Young monks sit around their gompa studying while old women circle it doing their prayers. Our driver shows us where a landslide wiped out a number of the homes in the village. The locals are extremely friendly. We stop for chai and chat with them in Hindi. Mom sketches a blind old man, who is thrilled to be the center of attention.
After two days, we book our ticket out of Pokhara. The entire town is geared towards the last stop before trekking the Annapurna Circuit but other than that, there is not a lot to do. I would have like to hiked out to the World Peace Pagoda but due to recent attacks on women, it is not suggested that women trek to it alone. Anxious to see the mountains which have been hidden under cloud cover every day, on the morning that we are flying out, I rise at 4:45 and take a thirty minute taxi up to Sarangkot, one of the closest viewpoints. I stand waiting in the darkness with a hundred other visitors. The mood is jovial, almost party like. At 6:10, the first glimpse of light illuminates one of the mountain peaks. As the sun slowly rises, the mountain range lights up. At heights of 6997 to 8167 meters, the peaks are breath taking. Camera click away non-stop. I try to capture this moment in my mind forever. By six-thirty, the sun has fully risen and my taxi driver urges me to leave in order to catch my flight back to Kathmandu.
An hour later, Mom and I are sitting in the airport restaurant. When we came in our airlines booth, Guna Air was not open despite the fact that every other airline was open. We decided to sit upstairs in the restaurant and have a coke and a coffee. Twenty minutes later, worried, I ask my mother to go check when Guna will open. She is halfway down the stairs when the waiter comes running out after her, telling her “Not open for ten minutes, go back and sit down.” He is very persistent, waving her back to our table. She obediently sits down. I am amazed that my mother obeyed, knowing her character. Eventually, however, we check in when the waiter tells us the booth is open.
After getting our boarding passes, we go through security. We are only carrying two small backpacks and do not have to check any luggage. Passing through the metal detector, I don't think that it is even plugged in. We are sent to the women's cubicle to be patted down and they casually look through Mom's bag that contained liquids, which they did not bat an eye lash at. Once in the waiting room, Mom decides to go to the toilet. We could smell it before we found it. The first toilet booth, a wooden door only has an unplugged big round hole where the door knob should be and it does not lock. The next one had no paper and no water. The sinks as usual was outside the toilet area and had not been washed in six years. And this is an airport! The keeper of this famous toilet came in and Mom asked her for soap. She pointed to a sliver of soap stuck to the wall. I guess she was supposed to wet her hands then take the soap. She might had done that if there had been any water.
Now for the flight. An experience of a lifetime. We walk over the tarmac, around another airplane, up some rickety tin steps than only one can get on at a time, frantically look for number eight and nine seats, only to have someone say “Free seating, free seating.” Then there are our bags. Since we carried our small backpacks we assumed that we would put them in an overhead compartment. There is no overhead, in fact the ceiling is just inches over our heads. The plane is an eighteen seater, nine on each side. No wider than six feet at most. We can see the two pilots siting in the front, even though we are seating way at the back. This was supposedly, when we booked tickets, a brand new plane. It didn't take long to figure out that this was a very old plane. A gorgeous Nepali flight attendant in a suit no less, said sweetly, “Fasten your seatbelts, please.” We had no sooner done that when the engines came on with a huge roar. As the wheels left the runway, Mom comments that she feels like we are being “shot out of a canon.” We hang on for dear life. Once in the air, we are offered a candy and a newspaper. Who can read ? Mom and I are hysterical with laughter. Side by side each other with a ten inch space between us, we laugh and laugh at this incredible experience.
But it is all worth it for the view. Now we know why we went straight up. Pokhara is down in a valley and surrounded by mountain ranges. I click one photo after the next of the snow-covered mountains that I had seen earlier in the morning. No sooner had we leveled out, we start to nosedive into into Kathmandu. Surprisingly, the landing is smooth, without a hitch. In twenty minutes, we covered the same distance that we drove by bus in seven hours two days before.
After a day's rest, we take a car and a driver to the ancient city of Bhaktapur. Bhaktapur is an amazing city. Mom and I spent the day walking the old cobble streets that are traffic free. It is like stepping back in time to the 1700's. We avoid the central Durbar square where they want ten dollars entry fee, a fortune compared to others that we have visited previously. Instead we get lost in the city, passing women knitting in the shade of their doorways or chatting with their neighbors. Men work on repairing the roads or building furniture. We visit potters square where the men and women have been making clay pots for hundreds of years. Later, we enjoy a cold beer and momos for lunch on the roof top of a small hotel and exhausted, we head back to Kathmandu.
We change hotels to move over to the Bodhnath Stupa. I want spend time with the Tibetans who come to here every day to walk clockwise around the Stupa. It is a huge white circular temple with a white dome topped with a four sided golden peak that has the infamous Buddhist eyes on each side. Long lines of prayer flags flutter in the wind. Maroon-robed Tibetan monks walk around the stupa, fingering their prayer beads, their lips moving quietly in prayer. Stooped whizzened worshipers twirl the hundreds of prayer wheels sitting in niches in the walls. The words Om Mani Padme Hum drone from a loudspeaker. A sudden burst of drums announces a funeral procession. We refrain from clicking our cameras in respect, as the tears run down my face at the sight of such naked pain.
At the end of ten days, we fly out of Nepal, sorry to leave and promising to come back. The friendly Nepalis have impressed us so much with their kindness. I want to come back with my kids and go trekking. But for now, Mom and I head for Bangladesh where I have some work to complete. But that is another story.
We spend some days in the city adjusting to being in Asia. It is a big change from Europe. Dusty roads, chaotic traffic, and air pollution. Kathmandu reminds me of being in Mexico city. Both cities lie in low valleys, trapping the air. Strangely, all this chaos is refreshing for us after being in Europe. Our senses are heightened as we dodge traffic and walk the narrow streets. We wander around Durbur square where former kings and queens were crowned and legitimized. It is the heart of the old town and filled with temples, terraced platforms and statues. Sadus approach us asking for money. Vendors too numerous to count try to sell us whatever trinket they are flogging, including flutes, tiger balm and jewelery. We soon tire of the bombardment and head back to our hotel.
After a couple of days, we decide to make a three day trip to Pokhara. Excited to get out of smoggy Kathmandu, we start out eagerly at seven am to catch our bus. We have paid five hundred rupees each for a non-air conditioned bus. There are about ten foreigners on the bus while the others were locals who I'm sure did not pay the same price. We start out merrily and in great spirits. For the first two hours we chatted and watched never-ending traffic. Eventually we leave the city limits and head into the hills, dashing along at the high speed of twenty kilometers an hour. A caravan of trucks travel in both directions. One truck decides to turn around in the middle of the road, holding up traffic on both sides oft the mountain pass.
For hours, I stare out the window. Women wash clothes in the mountain streams, carry water on their heads. Others pound rocks into gravel for the road construction that was underway.
The only men that I see are playing cards under trees. How did this division of labour come to be, I wonder. Our bus weaves through valleys, one after the other, up and down, passing beautiful lush steep terraces growing corn, wheat and okra. Banana trees border the road. Pokhara is five hundred meters below Kathmandu so the river that we are following is traveling in the same direction as us. As the river widens, there are more and more suspension bridges. Most are walkable. Others are just a suspension line with a rickety wooden basket dangling precariously. I shiver at the thought of falling into the rushing river gorge below.
As the heat heightens, our spirits begin to wane. If we keep the windows open, the dust flies in our faces; if we close it, we cook. At eleven o'clock, the bus makes a pit stop and we have to pay five rupees to pee in a latrine. And that payment does not ensure a clean venue. Need I say more. Afterward, I buy some bananas and a cucumber for a snack. Twenty minutes later, back on the bus. The heat grows. Mom dozes off intermittently, her head lolling with every curve. I grow lethargic, the sweat pouring down my back. After six hours, Mom and I decide that we will fly back to Kathmandu instead of taking the bus back.
After seven hours, we arrive in Pokhara through the industrial section. A city of 171,000. Pokhara is renown for a lovely lake and incredible mountain views. We get down from the bus and look for our prearranged hotel pickup. We've found that doing this eliminates a lot of tasseling from taxi drivers wanting a fare. Our glee at arriving turns to misery when we check into our hotel that is extremely isolated and up a road that is barely passable. But we are so exhausted that we don't have the energy to do anything about it today. We make the best of it until the morning when we change hotels.
One of the highlights of Pokhara over the next two days will be visiting the Tibetan village of Tashi Palkhel. Young monks sit around their gompa studying while old women circle it doing their prayers. Our driver shows us where a landslide wiped out a number of the homes in the village. The locals are extremely friendly. We stop for chai and chat with them in Hindi. Mom sketches a blind old man, who is thrilled to be the center of attention.
After two days, we book our ticket out of Pokhara. The entire town is geared towards the last stop before trekking the Annapurna Circuit but other than that, there is not a lot to do. I would have like to hiked out to the World Peace Pagoda but due to recent attacks on women, it is not suggested that women trek to it alone. Anxious to see the mountains which have been hidden under cloud cover every day, on the morning that we are flying out, I rise at 4:45 and take a thirty minute taxi up to Sarangkot, one of the closest viewpoints. I stand waiting in the darkness with a hundred other visitors. The mood is jovial, almost party like. At 6:10, the first glimpse of light illuminates one of the mountain peaks. As the sun slowly rises, the mountain range lights up. At heights of 6997 to 8167 meters, the peaks are breath taking. Camera click away non-stop. I try to capture this moment in my mind forever. By six-thirty, the sun has fully risen and my taxi driver urges me to leave in order to catch my flight back to Kathmandu.
An hour later, Mom and I are sitting in the airport restaurant. When we came in our airlines booth, Guna Air was not open despite the fact that every other airline was open. We decided to sit upstairs in the restaurant and have a coke and a coffee. Twenty minutes later, worried, I ask my mother to go check when Guna will open. She is halfway down the stairs when the waiter comes running out after her, telling her “Not open for ten minutes, go back and sit down.” He is very persistent, waving her back to our table. She obediently sits down. I am amazed that my mother obeyed, knowing her character. Eventually, however, we check in when the waiter tells us the booth is open.
After getting our boarding passes, we go through security. We are only carrying two small backpacks and do not have to check any luggage. Passing through the metal detector, I don't think that it is even plugged in. We are sent to the women's cubicle to be patted down and they casually look through Mom's bag that contained liquids, which they did not bat an eye lash at. Once in the waiting room, Mom decides to go to the toilet. We could smell it before we found it. The first toilet booth, a wooden door only has an unplugged big round hole where the door knob should be and it does not lock. The next one had no paper and no water. The sinks as usual was outside the toilet area and had not been washed in six years. And this is an airport! The keeper of this famous toilet came in and Mom asked her for soap. She pointed to a sliver of soap stuck to the wall. I guess she was supposed to wet her hands then take the soap. She might had done that if there had been any water.
Now for the flight. An experience of a lifetime. We walk over the tarmac, around another airplane, up some rickety tin steps than only one can get on at a time, frantically look for number eight and nine seats, only to have someone say “Free seating, free seating.” Then there are our bags. Since we carried our small backpacks we assumed that we would put them in an overhead compartment. There is no overhead, in fact the ceiling is just inches over our heads. The plane is an eighteen seater, nine on each side. No wider than six feet at most. We can see the two pilots siting in the front, even though we are seating way at the back. This was supposedly, when we booked tickets, a brand new plane. It didn't take long to figure out that this was a very old plane. A gorgeous Nepali flight attendant in a suit no less, said sweetly, “Fasten your seatbelts, please.” We had no sooner done that when the engines came on with a huge roar. As the wheels left the runway, Mom comments that she feels like we are being “shot out of a canon.” We hang on for dear life. Once in the air, we are offered a candy and a newspaper. Who can read ? Mom and I are hysterical with laughter. Side by side each other with a ten inch space between us, we laugh and laugh at this incredible experience.
But it is all worth it for the view. Now we know why we went straight up. Pokhara is down in a valley and surrounded by mountain ranges. I click one photo after the next of the snow-covered mountains that I had seen earlier in the morning. No sooner had we leveled out, we start to nosedive into into Kathmandu. Surprisingly, the landing is smooth, without a hitch. In twenty minutes, we covered the same distance that we drove by bus in seven hours two days before.
After a day's rest, we take a car and a driver to the ancient city of Bhaktapur. Bhaktapur is an amazing city. Mom and I spent the day walking the old cobble streets that are traffic free. It is like stepping back in time to the 1700's. We avoid the central Durbar square where they want ten dollars entry fee, a fortune compared to others that we have visited previously. Instead we get lost in the city, passing women knitting in the shade of their doorways or chatting with their neighbors. Men work on repairing the roads or building furniture. We visit potters square where the men and women have been making clay pots for hundreds of years. Later, we enjoy a cold beer and momos for lunch on the roof top of a small hotel and exhausted, we head back to Kathmandu.
We change hotels to move over to the Bodhnath Stupa. I want spend time with the Tibetans who come to here every day to walk clockwise around the Stupa. It is a huge white circular temple with a white dome topped with a four sided golden peak that has the infamous Buddhist eyes on each side. Long lines of prayer flags flutter in the wind. Maroon-robed Tibetan monks walk around the stupa, fingering their prayer beads, their lips moving quietly in prayer. Stooped whizzened worshipers twirl the hundreds of prayer wheels sitting in niches in the walls. The words Om Mani Padme Hum drone from a loudspeaker. A sudden burst of drums announces a funeral procession. We refrain from clicking our cameras in respect, as the tears run down my face at the sight of such naked pain.
At the end of ten days, we fly out of Nepal, sorry to leave and promising to come back. The friendly Nepalis have impressed us so much with their kindness. I want to come back with my kids and go trekking. But for now, Mom and I head for Bangladesh where I have some work to complete. But that is another story.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The good, the bad and the ugly: Turkey
One of the countries on our European leg that I was looking forward to the most was Turkey. I anticipated that Turkey was going to be different from the other countries that we had visited in Europe and I wondered if it would be closer to my Asian experiences. But this was not to be the case.
Turkey is the only country that spans two continents, Europe and Asia and thus, the city of Istanbul is half European, half Asian. Apparently it used to be a very corrupt country but then the government cracked down, bringing about huge changes. Now it is very modern, with an excellent infrastructure. (India could take some lessons here on the eve of the Commonwealth Games.) The roads and highways are in excellent condition and there is evidence of planning and wealth everywhere. It helps that Turkey is enjoying a surge in tourism which was very evident during our stay.
Turkey is a Muslim country and I found that the Turkish people rarely made eye contact nor smile. Part of me wonders if they are sick to death of tourists. I can't imagine what it is like to have a gazillion tourists three hundred and sixty five days a year. There is never a lull or down season. Brand new state of the art buses were everywhere. Cruise ships arrived daily. We even had to time our museum visits to avoid the crowds.
The first part of our stay was in the lovely Sebnem Hotel, a small hotel owned by a young man who is eeking out a living in a very hotel laden city. Every morning we were greeted with an unbelievable breakfast of homemade pastries, made fresh daily. He was extremely helpful and one of the rare ones with a smile for us.
We spent many days touring the incredible sights: the Blue Mosque, Santa Sophia, Dolmabahce Palace, the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Market. My Mom was particularly moved by our visit to Santa Sophia. It is a former Christian church, dating 500 DC. Absolutely enormous in size with beautiful frescoed ceilings and mosaics. Unfortunately the frescoes were peeling and any symbol of Christianity that was removable was removed. Sadly, unlike our visit to the palace where people were yelled at for putting a finger on a wall, tourists in Santa Sophia are allowed to tramp through in great hoards without any care or thought for its protection.
One of the highlights of the week was a quick two day trip to Assos. John and I went by bus, over seven hours. The bus was state of the art, even with wireless internet and incredible free food service on board. I felt like I was on a plane. A young man in a crisp white shirt, complete with a bow-tie and black pants pushed his little trolley up and down the aisle every couple of hours. When we arrived in the closest town to Assos, we had to take a dolmus (a little mini-bus) the rest of the way and I made friends with an old man who was thrilled to explain his village heritage to a Canadian. Assos is a primitive stone village, which is also the site of ancient ruins. John and I trekked the hills and even hitch-hiked our way back to the village. Sadly, we wished that we had had one more day there.
Each country seems to bring out different feelings in me. One night an incident brought this to a head. John and I were walking up a hill to go out for dinner. We were walking about 1 ½ feet apart, when all of a sudden, a young man came running down the hill towards me. In the blink of an eye, with his hand flat, he whacked my upper chest, just below my throat. The stinging slap resounded in the night as he continued running down the hill. I was deeply shaken and to this day wonder why he did this. Was he trying to snatch my travel purse, which was over my head and shoulder? Was he making a statement about non-Islamic women, even though I was very conservatively dressed? Or was he simply deranged? I guess I'll never know.
The day before we left, in celebration of John's birthday, we decided to splurge and go for a Turkish bath. The Cagaloglu Hamam was constructed in 1741 and is still running today. After paying our forty Euros each (remember that I said splurge), John and I parted to go to our respective sections, men's and women's. It was an amazing hour long experience for me as I underwent a total exfoliating, massage and scrub, all while lying on huge marble platform with steam rising up to the beautiful mosaic domed ceiling. Other women lay around me in various stages of their bath, which is administered by women dressed in the old style full body, one piece bathing suits. Eucalyptus wafted through the air. As I lay there, condensation from the ceiling dripped on my face. After each step, my woman poured bowl fulls of warm water over my head. Finishing up in the sauna, I emerged from the Hamam, feeling very relaxed, much like a wet noodle.
One resonating sight that still remains with me is seeing women dressed in full burkhas: black from head to toe, with only a slit to see through. Not that every women was dressed like this, far from it. But there were enough to make it was a common sight. I often saw two or three women, with one husband, walking around or sitting in parks, totally covered. On our flight out of Istanbul, a woman in full burkha, further covered the slit for her eyes with yet another black cover when she went to the toilet. I have no idea how she ever saw how to get to the toilet at the back of the plane. And when we arrived in Doha, she and her family were all whisked away in a Mercedes taxi, directly from the plane. They did not board the crowded shuttle bus that took us into the airport terminal. I know that some women do chose to cover themselves up willingly but there are many others who have no choice. I often wonder how they see the world through a wall of black and what they are feeling underneath.
But what I missed most of all was being able to look into their eyes and connect, as women do all over the world.
Turkey is the only country that spans two continents, Europe and Asia and thus, the city of Istanbul is half European, half Asian. Apparently it used to be a very corrupt country but then the government cracked down, bringing about huge changes. Now it is very modern, with an excellent infrastructure. (India could take some lessons here on the eve of the Commonwealth Games.) The roads and highways are in excellent condition and there is evidence of planning and wealth everywhere. It helps that Turkey is enjoying a surge in tourism which was very evident during our stay.
Turkey is a Muslim country and I found that the Turkish people rarely made eye contact nor smile. Part of me wonders if they are sick to death of tourists. I can't imagine what it is like to have a gazillion tourists three hundred and sixty five days a year. There is never a lull or down season. Brand new state of the art buses were everywhere. Cruise ships arrived daily. We even had to time our museum visits to avoid the crowds.
The first part of our stay was in the lovely Sebnem Hotel, a small hotel owned by a young man who is eeking out a living in a very hotel laden city. Every morning we were greeted with an unbelievable breakfast of homemade pastries, made fresh daily. He was extremely helpful and one of the rare ones with a smile for us.
We spent many days touring the incredible sights: the Blue Mosque, Santa Sophia, Dolmabahce Palace, the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Market. My Mom was particularly moved by our visit to Santa Sophia. It is a former Christian church, dating 500 DC. Absolutely enormous in size with beautiful frescoed ceilings and mosaics. Unfortunately the frescoes were peeling and any symbol of Christianity that was removable was removed. Sadly, unlike our visit to the palace where people were yelled at for putting a finger on a wall, tourists in Santa Sophia are allowed to tramp through in great hoards without any care or thought for its protection.
One of the highlights of the week was a quick two day trip to Assos. John and I went by bus, over seven hours. The bus was state of the art, even with wireless internet and incredible free food service on board. I felt like I was on a plane. A young man in a crisp white shirt, complete with a bow-tie and black pants pushed his little trolley up and down the aisle every couple of hours. When we arrived in the closest town to Assos, we had to take a dolmus (a little mini-bus) the rest of the way and I made friends with an old man who was thrilled to explain his village heritage to a Canadian. Assos is a primitive stone village, which is also the site of ancient ruins. John and I trekked the hills and even hitch-hiked our way back to the village. Sadly, we wished that we had had one more day there.
Each country seems to bring out different feelings in me. One night an incident brought this to a head. John and I were walking up a hill to go out for dinner. We were walking about 1 ½ feet apart, when all of a sudden, a young man came running down the hill towards me. In the blink of an eye, with his hand flat, he whacked my upper chest, just below my throat. The stinging slap resounded in the night as he continued running down the hill. I was deeply shaken and to this day wonder why he did this. Was he trying to snatch my travel purse, which was over my head and shoulder? Was he making a statement about non-Islamic women, even though I was very conservatively dressed? Or was he simply deranged? I guess I'll never know.
The day before we left, in celebration of John's birthday, we decided to splurge and go for a Turkish bath. The Cagaloglu Hamam was constructed in 1741 and is still running today. After paying our forty Euros each (remember that I said splurge), John and I parted to go to our respective sections, men's and women's. It was an amazing hour long experience for me as I underwent a total exfoliating, massage and scrub, all while lying on huge marble platform with steam rising up to the beautiful mosaic domed ceiling. Other women lay around me in various stages of their bath, which is administered by women dressed in the old style full body, one piece bathing suits. Eucalyptus wafted through the air. As I lay there, condensation from the ceiling dripped on my face. After each step, my woman poured bowl fulls of warm water over my head. Finishing up in the sauna, I emerged from the Hamam, feeling very relaxed, much like a wet noodle.
One resonating sight that still remains with me is seeing women dressed in full burkhas: black from head to toe, with only a slit to see through. Not that every women was dressed like this, far from it. But there were enough to make it was a common sight. I often saw two or three women, with one husband, walking around or sitting in parks, totally covered. On our flight out of Istanbul, a woman in full burkha, further covered the slit for her eyes with yet another black cover when she went to the toilet. I have no idea how she ever saw how to get to the toilet at the back of the plane. And when we arrived in Doha, she and her family were all whisked away in a Mercedes taxi, directly from the plane. They did not board the crowded shuttle bus that took us into the airport terminal. I know that some women do chose to cover themselves up willingly but there are many others who have no choice. I often wonder how they see the world through a wall of black and what they are feeling underneath.
But what I missed most of all was being able to look into their eyes and connect, as women do all over the world.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Greece
Wow, the weeks are flying by. Three weeks ago, I was in Greece and although it had a some rough patches, my fellow travelers and I all really enjoyed it. The week was a busy one with travel by air, ferry, car, taxi, and metro. Ah yes, the metro. I've decided that the most dangerous way to travel is not by air, nor by car but by metro. This is because on our way into Athens, after our flight from Rome, John was pick pocketed in the metro. And for anyone keeping track, I was pick pocketed last March in the Paris metro. Lesson here: beware of all metros. And believe me, these guys are professionals. They pick the most congested areas, for example where there are a lot of people getting on and off to change trains. They pick the battle weary travelers, the ones with fatigue written all over their faces. The ones with the suitcases and backpacks that they are concentrating so hard on not forgetting. And voila, you have the perfect situation. You stand behind the a fore said traveler, and as he bends down to pick up his luggage to get off, you slip your hand into his pocket and lighten his load. Never pausing to think how incredibly awful it makes the traveler feel, how vulnerable, how stricken. However, as I know from experience, one eventually after a couple of days gets past it and lucky for John, he has a wife with him who has her credit cards.
After waiting one day in Athens for my mother and Moisha to arrive from Toronto, we flew to San Torini Island. This was definitely the highlight of Greece for me. San Torini is now an island in the shape of a half-moon. Way back before 1650 BC, it used to be a round island until the volcano in the middle of it erupted and blew the island into pieces. My guide book tells me that it was one of the largest explosions in the history of the planet, setting off a spew of ash 35 kilometres in the air.
Our villa, Kokkinnos Villas, was perched on the inner rim of the volcano on one end of the island and had a spectacular view of the caldera. Cruise ships came and went daily to bring tourists to the town of Fira. We had a lovely balcony and a rugged beach about 100 steps down. We have not been anywhere yet on this trip that we did not have to climb up or down to go somewhere. But I love it. We immediately opened a bottle of wine and had a picnic of local bread and cheese.
My favorite day on the island was our trip to Oia, pronounced Eya. Located at the extreme other end of the island, it is constantly bathed in sunlight and has the best sunsets. The architecture is stunning. White washed cement houses with blue domed roofs line the cliff. Many have been turned into little hotels and have small jacuzzi size pools looking out over the ocean. We wandered for hours through tiny lane ways and up and down hundreds of steps. The sun beat down on us relentlessly. I bought some delicious fresh figs that were in season.
The next day we took the ferry to Crete and then drove to Chania (pronouned Hania). A lovely city with a very Venetian port. We stayed in one of the nicest hotels on our trip, a boutique hotel that was lovingly finished and had antiques in every nook and cranny. A bottle of wine and bread and cheese in the garden refreshed us all after an afternoon of walking. There is a beach very close by and John and I ran down for a swim. It is the only sandy beach that we encountered on this trip. On of the highlights of this city was dinner in Tamam restaurant. A former Turkish bath, the restaurant is bathed in amber walls; tables were around the top periphery and in the sunken area. The place was packed as it is a favorite even with the locals. We were served by a very nice bohemian looking young man and enjoyed a delicious Greek meal with wine. Free ouzo was offered at the end, of which we partook of course!
Greece was amazing, quite different from the rest of Europe. Our days flew by and soon we were on our way to Turkey. But that is another story.
After waiting one day in Athens for my mother and Moisha to arrive from Toronto, we flew to San Torini Island. This was definitely the highlight of Greece for me. San Torini is now an island in the shape of a half-moon. Way back before 1650 BC, it used to be a round island until the volcano in the middle of it erupted and blew the island into pieces. My guide book tells me that it was one of the largest explosions in the history of the planet, setting off a spew of ash 35 kilometres in the air.
Our villa, Kokkinnos Villas, was perched on the inner rim of the volcano on one end of the island and had a spectacular view of the caldera. Cruise ships came and went daily to bring tourists to the town of Fira. We had a lovely balcony and a rugged beach about 100 steps down. We have not been anywhere yet on this trip that we did not have to climb up or down to go somewhere. But I love it. We immediately opened a bottle of wine and had a picnic of local bread and cheese.
My favorite day on the island was our trip to Oia, pronounced Eya. Located at the extreme other end of the island, it is constantly bathed in sunlight and has the best sunsets. The architecture is stunning. White washed cement houses with blue domed roofs line the cliff. Many have been turned into little hotels and have small jacuzzi size pools looking out over the ocean. We wandered for hours through tiny lane ways and up and down hundreds of steps. The sun beat down on us relentlessly. I bought some delicious fresh figs that were in season.
The next day we took the ferry to Crete and then drove to Chania (pronouned Hania). A lovely city with a very Venetian port. We stayed in one of the nicest hotels on our trip, a boutique hotel that was lovingly finished and had antiques in every nook and cranny. A bottle of wine and bread and cheese in the garden refreshed us all after an afternoon of walking. There is a beach very close by and John and I ran down for a swim. It is the only sandy beach that we encountered on this trip. On of the highlights of this city was dinner in Tamam restaurant. A former Turkish bath, the restaurant is bathed in amber walls; tables were around the top periphery and in the sunken area. The place was packed as it is a favorite even with the locals. We were served by a very nice bohemian looking young man and enjoyed a delicious Greek meal with wine. Free ouzo was offered at the end, of which we partook of course!
Greece was amazing, quite different from the rest of Europe. Our days flew by and soon we were on our way to Turkey. But that is another story.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Italy
A few months ago, I was reading an article in a travel magazines on Cinque Terre, in Northern Italy. I was immediately enticed to go there and so after France, John and I found ourselves on a train from Nice to La Spezia. It was a complicated train trip with three transfers but finally we arrived in the late afternoon. After a bit of a struggle with a broken suitcase (the handle and the wheels were not longer working on John's bag), we checked into the old but nicely renovated Hotel Fierneze. Then we headed out to find our car rental.
Of course, Italy being Italy, the office was closed in the late afternoon (meaning past siesta time) even though opening hours posted on the door stated that they would be open. We ducked into a rustic wine bar with a surly waiter who waved us to one of the rare pay phones in Europe. I took a guess and called one of the three numbers that had been posted on the door, the one written by hand. A guy answered and explained that I had said I was coming in at noon. “Well”, I answered, “plans change and the train arrived later than I had anticipated.” In due time, he came, and soon we were outfitted with a Fiat Panda, not a car that I would recommend.
The next day we took the local train to the last village of Cinque Terre, Monterosso al Mare, which means mountain by the sea, with the emphasis on mountain. The old adage, you must go up to come down, is multiplied ten-fold. After a quick look around the village, we struck out, excited to do a nine kilometre hike from one village to the next, thus seeing all five villages. Cinque Terre is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Purchasing a park ticket, we hit the trail. This first section was extremely challenging, very steep, at times very narrow, up and over hills, through vineyards and olive groves. Being from the over-cautious North America, we were amazed to see how little warning there was about the degree of difficulty of this hike. And also the lack of guard rails or anything to stop a fall into the sea below. We passed people in flip flops, high heels, even one guy in his bare feet. The heat was extreme and going up, everyone was breathing hard. We heard a multitude of languages. As we passed each other going in opposite directions on the path, I sometimes got the sense by their expressions that they knew what was in store for us. The trail went on and on. Up and over, down again. Hundreds of steps. Back up again.
But it was all worth it. From the great heights, the vistas were stunning. An hour and a half later, we arrived in Vernazza, the second village. Hungry from our exertion, we bought two beers ( Heineken) and three different kinds of foccacia and proceeded to sit on a sea wall by the beach. Our lunch was followed by a lovely swim in the crystal-clear harbour waters. All around us, colourful village houses clung to the rocks, rising in a multi-layered fashion, one above the other up the cliff.
But we could not linger. Finding the trail, we struck out again on yet another challenging section, to arrive over an hour later in Corniglia, the only village of the five that is not situated down by the sea but rests high on the mountain. We paused for a fresh granati made from local lemons and passed a store playing Dr. John music, reminding us both of how little music we'd heard lately.
Off to Manarola, a moderate hike compared to what we had just done, with surprisingly flat terrain and nice wide trails. Just outside of this village, we stopped at a local swimming hole for another very refreshing swim. The Italians sure love their sun and again, there were only bikinis, not to mention a few topless women. John and I sat for a bit to rest and then headed into the fishing village for an expresso. Each of these towns is a major tourist destination but there are still signs of the working man. White aprons and fishing clothes flutter on the many balconies, interspersed with houses offering 'kamare'- rooms- for rent. Cars are not allowed in any of the five villages, making them a walkers paradise.
The walk to the last village, Riomaggiore was tame by comparison, a stroll with wide, flat, cement walkways. Dinner at la Grotta restaurant was delicious, with lots of local Italian specialties. Tired but happy, we jumped on the train and headed back to our hotel. Cinque Terre was definitely the highlight of Italy for both of us.
The remainder of our time in Italy was spent in the Almafi coast, south of Napoli. The drive there was long and a bit stressful, but rewarding. We stayed in a former olive mill, Villa Il Frantorio, now a Bed and Breakfast, in Praiano. A stunning view but lots of climbing. Two hundred steps down to the village and another two hundred further down to the beach. That meant four hundred steps back up after a swim.
Daily we took the local buses to the towns of Positano and to Almafi, but found them way too touristy. The fun was more in riding the buses with their crazy drivers who are experts at careening around the hair pin turns with a steep drop off into the sea beside us. The highlight of this part of the trip, however, was the food. Each night, we returned to La Strada, to see Lorenzo, the best waiter in Europe. At his suggestions we sampled some of the amazing local dishes and wines. I loved the Caprese salad, ripe tomatoes with buffalo cheese, the 'courgettes'- stuffed zucchini flowers and also the fresh marinated anchovies. And the wine was excellent and moderately priced.
The days flew by and soon we found ourselves back on the highway, headed for the airport in Rome. We were excited to venture into a new country for us, Greece. But that is another story.
Of course, Italy being Italy, the office was closed in the late afternoon (meaning past siesta time) even though opening hours posted on the door stated that they would be open. We ducked into a rustic wine bar with a surly waiter who waved us to one of the rare pay phones in Europe. I took a guess and called one of the three numbers that had been posted on the door, the one written by hand. A guy answered and explained that I had said I was coming in at noon. “Well”, I answered, “plans change and the train arrived later than I had anticipated.” In due time, he came, and soon we were outfitted with a Fiat Panda, not a car that I would recommend.
The next day we took the local train to the last village of Cinque Terre, Monterosso al Mare, which means mountain by the sea, with the emphasis on mountain. The old adage, you must go up to come down, is multiplied ten-fold. After a quick look around the village, we struck out, excited to do a nine kilometre hike from one village to the next, thus seeing all five villages. Cinque Terre is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Purchasing a park ticket, we hit the trail. This first section was extremely challenging, very steep, at times very narrow, up and over hills, through vineyards and olive groves. Being from the over-cautious North America, we were amazed to see how little warning there was about the degree of difficulty of this hike. And also the lack of guard rails or anything to stop a fall into the sea below. We passed people in flip flops, high heels, even one guy in his bare feet. The heat was extreme and going up, everyone was breathing hard. We heard a multitude of languages. As we passed each other going in opposite directions on the path, I sometimes got the sense by their expressions that they knew what was in store for us. The trail went on and on. Up and over, down again. Hundreds of steps. Back up again.
But it was all worth it. From the great heights, the vistas were stunning. An hour and a half later, we arrived in Vernazza, the second village. Hungry from our exertion, we bought two beers ( Heineken) and three different kinds of foccacia and proceeded to sit on a sea wall by the beach. Our lunch was followed by a lovely swim in the crystal-clear harbour waters. All around us, colourful village houses clung to the rocks, rising in a multi-layered fashion, one above the other up the cliff.
But we could not linger. Finding the trail, we struck out again on yet another challenging section, to arrive over an hour later in Corniglia, the only village of the five that is not situated down by the sea but rests high on the mountain. We paused for a fresh granati made from local lemons and passed a store playing Dr. John music, reminding us both of how little music we'd heard lately.
Off to Manarola, a moderate hike compared to what we had just done, with surprisingly flat terrain and nice wide trails. Just outside of this village, we stopped at a local swimming hole for another very refreshing swim. The Italians sure love their sun and again, there were only bikinis, not to mention a few topless women. John and I sat for a bit to rest and then headed into the fishing village for an expresso. Each of these towns is a major tourist destination but there are still signs of the working man. White aprons and fishing clothes flutter on the many balconies, interspersed with houses offering 'kamare'- rooms- for rent. Cars are not allowed in any of the five villages, making them a walkers paradise.
The walk to the last village, Riomaggiore was tame by comparison, a stroll with wide, flat, cement walkways. Dinner at la Grotta restaurant was delicious, with lots of local Italian specialties. Tired but happy, we jumped on the train and headed back to our hotel. Cinque Terre was definitely the highlight of Italy for both of us.
The remainder of our time in Italy was spent in the Almafi coast, south of Napoli. The drive there was long and a bit stressful, but rewarding. We stayed in a former olive mill, Villa Il Frantorio, now a Bed and Breakfast, in Praiano. A stunning view but lots of climbing. Two hundred steps down to the village and another two hundred further down to the beach. That meant four hundred steps back up after a swim.
Daily we took the local buses to the towns of Positano and to Almafi, but found them way too touristy. The fun was more in riding the buses with their crazy drivers who are experts at careening around the hair pin turns with a steep drop off into the sea beside us. The highlight of this part of the trip, however, was the food. Each night, we returned to La Strada, to see Lorenzo, the best waiter in Europe. At his suggestions we sampled some of the amazing local dishes and wines. I loved the Caprese salad, ripe tomatoes with buffalo cheese, the 'courgettes'- stuffed zucchini flowers and also the fresh marinated anchovies. And the wine was excellent and moderately priced.
The days flew by and soon we found ourselves back on the highway, headed for the airport in Rome. We were excited to venture into a new country for us, Greece. But that is another story.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Why We Travel
One of the great things about traveling is that it gives me down time. I am no longer rushing around trying to cross off a million things on my daily list. I don't even make a list. And believe me, for someone who constantly feels that she has to be productive, this is a welcoming change for me. And with my new found freedom, I have time to think. Lately I've been thinking about why I travel. And why do others travel?
Years ago, in my grandparents generation, traveling was unheard of. To travel somewhere was really something. People rarely left their village or town and rarely their province or country. How things have changed. Now we have the time, the money and the luxury of travel. We are more informed than ever before, thanks to the Internet. We can sit in our living rooms and plan an exotic trip. The European section of this trip was all planned, to the day, on the Internet.
Today people travel for many reasons: for leisure, for work, to get away, to search their roots. Perhaps their ancestors came from Ireland, Poland, or Portugal. There are people who travel to find themselves. Then there are people who travel to get lost. My son, Aaron, tells me that his favorite thing to do is deliberately get lost in a city and then find his way home. Coming from a small city myself where I am well known as an educator, I must admit that I like the anonymity of travel. I can jump out of the fish bowl.
There are people who travel to experience the life that they cannot afford on a consistent basis at home. They stay in five star hotels and eat at the best restaurants. They are in search of the creature comforts that at home they can only dream about having. There are also people who travel to taste new food and wine. Time and money are a huge factor. Recent generations have more time and money to travel then in the past. Then there are people who want everything exactly the same as when they have at home. Same food, same amenities, same level of comfort. They are willing to try new things but only to a point.
There are people who travel to get out of their comfort zone. This is me. I like experiencing a more minimalist lifestyle. I love walking out the door with only my pack on my back, my life reduced to just a few outfits, a sleeping bag, a mosquito net and my malaria drugs. Of course, this has a lot to do with the fact that I have a lovely home and lack for nothing at home. If I struggled for survival at home, I'm sure that my travel would be quite different. In 2004, I loved living in the village in India with no running water and no electricity. Others cringed when I told them where I would be laying my head. I admit that I like to live on the edge. Eat less. Challenge myself to do without. Suffer some hardship. And get the horizon off my nose. I believe that it makes me a more flexible and understanding person. When I travel, I want to experience things that I don't get to experience daily. Otherwise, why travel? But that is me. I am restless spirit who wants to live life as much as possible, in all it's forms. And there is so much to see and do, and only one lifetime to do it all in. On that note, I'm off to explore.
Years ago, in my grandparents generation, traveling was unheard of. To travel somewhere was really something. People rarely left their village or town and rarely their province or country. How things have changed. Now we have the time, the money and the luxury of travel. We are more informed than ever before, thanks to the Internet. We can sit in our living rooms and plan an exotic trip. The European section of this trip was all planned, to the day, on the Internet.
Today people travel for many reasons: for leisure, for work, to get away, to search their roots. Perhaps their ancestors came from Ireland, Poland, or Portugal. There are people who travel to find themselves. Then there are people who travel to get lost. My son, Aaron, tells me that his favorite thing to do is deliberately get lost in a city and then find his way home. Coming from a small city myself where I am well known as an educator, I must admit that I like the anonymity of travel. I can jump out of the fish bowl.
There are people who travel to experience the life that they cannot afford on a consistent basis at home. They stay in five star hotels and eat at the best restaurants. They are in search of the creature comforts that at home they can only dream about having. There are also people who travel to taste new food and wine. Time and money are a huge factor. Recent generations have more time and money to travel then in the past. Then there are people who want everything exactly the same as when they have at home. Same food, same amenities, same level of comfort. They are willing to try new things but only to a point.
There are people who travel to get out of their comfort zone. This is me. I like experiencing a more minimalist lifestyle. I love walking out the door with only my pack on my back, my life reduced to just a few outfits, a sleeping bag, a mosquito net and my malaria drugs. Of course, this has a lot to do with the fact that I have a lovely home and lack for nothing at home. If I struggled for survival at home, I'm sure that my travel would be quite different. In 2004, I loved living in the village in India with no running water and no electricity. Others cringed when I told them where I would be laying my head. I admit that I like to live on the edge. Eat less. Challenge myself to do without. Suffer some hardship. And get the horizon off my nose. I believe that it makes me a more flexible and understanding person. When I travel, I want to experience things that I don't get to experience daily. Otherwise, why travel? But that is me. I am restless spirit who wants to live life as much as possible, in all it's forms. And there is so much to see and do, and only one lifetime to do it all in. On that note, I'm off to explore.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
My Travel Itinerary
My Itinerary Dates
A number of people have asked for my itinerary and dates.
They are as follows:
August 23-29th -France
August 30-September 4- Italy
September 4-12th Greece
September 13th -20th Istanbul
September20th -30th- Nepal
October 1-8th-Bangladesh
October 8-30th- Southern India/ Goa
November 1- December 5th- Northern India/ based out of Amritsar
Tentative Dates so far in 2011
March 6-19 Argentina
March 20-April 2 Peru
April 3-11? Bahamas
A number of people have asked for my itinerary and dates.
They are as follows:
August 23-29th -France
August 30-September 4- Italy
September 4-12th Greece
September 13th -20th Istanbul
September20th -30th- Nepal
October 1-8th-Bangladesh
October 8-30th- Southern India/ Goa
November 1- December 5th- Northern India/ based out of Amritsar
Tentative Dates so far in 2011
March 6-19 Argentina
March 20-April 2 Peru
April 3-11? Bahamas
Friday, September 3, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
France
France
As John and I sit on the train to Italy, it is hard to believe that one week has already flown by. It has been a good week, as we adjust to traveling through Europe for four weeks. We arrived in Nice without any lost luggage, our flight only an hour late from Montreal. Collecting our rental car, we set out to my girlfriend Catherine's home in Speracedes, near Grasse.
Staying with Catherine and her husband in their summer villa on the side of a mountain has been voted by John and I highlight number one of our week in France, (WOW factor 10- more on my rating system later). They were extremely generous hosts, serving delicious Provencal meals and amazing wines, including an 82 Sauternes. Their beautiful villa, designed by Catherine and built just ten years ago, included a pristine pool where we swam away our travel fatigue. A picturesque walk up to the village of Cabris offered a panoramic view of the region. A beer at the local pub amongst the locals quaffed our thirst as the weather was very hot. Unfortunately throughout our whole stay here we never got to see the Mediterranean due to persistent low cloud cover. Perhaps next time.
After two days, we traveled the local highways to St. Maximin la Sainte Baume, excited to stay in converted convent. However, while the convent was beautiful, the 12th century stone building had it's drawbacks. It was extremely hot and the fan in the room was on a one hour timer, so that we would awaken in the middle of the night sweating. The staff were less than welcoming and the town itself did not have a lot to offer. The highlight of our visit in this town was one night's dinner: la pizza forrestiere, full of many different kinds of mushrooms. Sold out of a mobile truck with a wood oven, there was always a lineup of people waiting for the delicious pizzas. A bargain at ten euros.
Another of our highlights was reconnecting with our friend Simon who met us at the Fontaine Rotonde in Aix en Provence. It was great to see him after four years and we spent a lovely lunch on a terrasse, discussing all the changes in our lives. Aix en Provence is a lovely city, one that I would love to visit again.
Friday night, the mistral winds blew in, giving us some much needed respite from the heat. Saturday found us traveling the coastal highway from St. Raphael to Cannes. The Cote d'Azur is stunningly beautiful and yet rugged at the same time with mountainous terrain. The Mediterranean sparkled invitingly but we forged on to Nice despite the desire to stop and swim at one of the many local beaches.
The second top highlight of the week was our two days spent in Nice, (WOW factor 9). After a rough start (we searched the city for over an hour to gas up the car before handing it back in), we checked into the lovely Hotel de Flore in downtown Nice. Donning our bathing suits and grabbing our towels, we headed for the beach two blocks away. Or should I say, beaches. There are ten of them to be specific, all side by side. Let me tell you about the beaches. Most importantly they consist of small rocks and pebbles. There is no sand. I can't think of anywhere else in the world where people lay down their towels, then make a feeble attempt to smooth down a semi-comfortable area to lie on. And they come by the thousands to do this. Planes fly by us all afternoon, landing every fifteen minutes or so. Of course, if you are willing to pay fifteen euros for the afternoon, you could rent a beach bed in private areas. But as this is a month long trip in Europe, frugality is the order of the day.
Another surprising thing is that every woman on the beach wears a two piece, irregardless of age or size. I only brought my one piece so I feel very out of place. Supple young girls with firm breasts give way to middle aged women, followed by wizened old ladies whose skin has taken on a leather tone. John and I take turns swimming in the very warm and salty Mediterranean. Large waves pound the shoreline, sometimes making it a challenge to get in and out. But the feeling is sensational, especially after a day in transit. Cooled off, we sat back and ate our picnic lunch: sandwiches and beer. Yummy.
Our mornings in Nice were spent walking the narrow streets of Old Nice and visiting the local market filled with fresh flowers, spices, olives, grapes, garlic, bakery goods, homemade soaps and candies, meat products and fish. I love the Nice architecture with it's ocre colored apartment buildings with purple flowers hanging from the ornate metal balconies. Laundry fluttered from others. Nearby, a street artist plays an accordion. Every so often, we would stop for a European coffee in little tiny cups, yielding about three sips. But they are so good. I try to make the sips last so we can just sit and watch the world go by.
Then back to the beach. This time armed with recently purchased water shoes to protect our tender feet. We sit and watch sunbathers burn themselves black, all the while smoking one cigarette after the other. It made us wonder about their future health with the double whammy. Nearby four middle-aged men play cards on a communal mat. A beer-walla comes by selling cold drinks. Children squeal as they ride the waves, reminding me of my children when they were young.
Later in the afternoon, we headed back to our hotel room and open a bottle of rose that we bought during our touring of some of the wineries a few days ago. Provence is renown for its rose wines. A taste of summer, the crisp and fragrant wine quaffed our post-beach thirst. Some phone calls home on Skype to our loved ones make us feel connected again, then we are off to sample another dinner of traditional Provence fare, with more wine of course!
France behind us now, I will miss speaking French but look forward to Italy, especially visiting Cinque Terre. But that is another story. Next stop, la Spezia.
As John and I sit on the train to Italy, it is hard to believe that one week has already flown by. It has been a good week, as we adjust to traveling through Europe for four weeks. We arrived in Nice without any lost luggage, our flight only an hour late from Montreal. Collecting our rental car, we set out to my girlfriend Catherine's home in Speracedes, near Grasse.
Staying with Catherine and her husband in their summer villa on the side of a mountain has been voted by John and I highlight number one of our week in France, (WOW factor 10- more on my rating system later). They were extremely generous hosts, serving delicious Provencal meals and amazing wines, including an 82 Sauternes. Their beautiful villa, designed by Catherine and built just ten years ago, included a pristine pool where we swam away our travel fatigue. A picturesque walk up to the village of Cabris offered a panoramic view of the region. A beer at the local pub amongst the locals quaffed our thirst as the weather was very hot. Unfortunately throughout our whole stay here we never got to see the Mediterranean due to persistent low cloud cover. Perhaps next time.
After two days, we traveled the local highways to St. Maximin la Sainte Baume, excited to stay in converted convent. However, while the convent was beautiful, the 12th century stone building had it's drawbacks. It was extremely hot and the fan in the room was on a one hour timer, so that we would awaken in the middle of the night sweating. The staff were less than welcoming and the town itself did not have a lot to offer. The highlight of our visit in this town was one night's dinner: la pizza forrestiere, full of many different kinds of mushrooms. Sold out of a mobile truck with a wood oven, there was always a lineup of people waiting for the delicious pizzas. A bargain at ten euros.
Another of our highlights was reconnecting with our friend Simon who met us at the Fontaine Rotonde in Aix en Provence. It was great to see him after four years and we spent a lovely lunch on a terrasse, discussing all the changes in our lives. Aix en Provence is a lovely city, one that I would love to visit again.
Friday night, the mistral winds blew in, giving us some much needed respite from the heat. Saturday found us traveling the coastal highway from St. Raphael to Cannes. The Cote d'Azur is stunningly beautiful and yet rugged at the same time with mountainous terrain. The Mediterranean sparkled invitingly but we forged on to Nice despite the desire to stop and swim at one of the many local beaches.
The second top highlight of the week was our two days spent in Nice, (WOW factor 9). After a rough start (we searched the city for over an hour to gas up the car before handing it back in), we checked into the lovely Hotel de Flore in downtown Nice. Donning our bathing suits and grabbing our towels, we headed for the beach two blocks away. Or should I say, beaches. There are ten of them to be specific, all side by side. Let me tell you about the beaches. Most importantly they consist of small rocks and pebbles. There is no sand. I can't think of anywhere else in the world where people lay down their towels, then make a feeble attempt to smooth down a semi-comfortable area to lie on. And they come by the thousands to do this. Planes fly by us all afternoon, landing every fifteen minutes or so. Of course, if you are willing to pay fifteen euros for the afternoon, you could rent a beach bed in private areas. But as this is a month long trip in Europe, frugality is the order of the day.
Another surprising thing is that every woman on the beach wears a two piece, irregardless of age or size. I only brought my one piece so I feel very out of place. Supple young girls with firm breasts give way to middle aged women, followed by wizened old ladies whose skin has taken on a leather tone. John and I take turns swimming in the very warm and salty Mediterranean. Large waves pound the shoreline, sometimes making it a challenge to get in and out. But the feeling is sensational, especially after a day in transit. Cooled off, we sat back and ate our picnic lunch: sandwiches and beer. Yummy.
Our mornings in Nice were spent walking the narrow streets of Old Nice and visiting the local market filled with fresh flowers, spices, olives, grapes, garlic, bakery goods, homemade soaps and candies, meat products and fish. I love the Nice architecture with it's ocre colored apartment buildings with purple flowers hanging from the ornate metal balconies. Laundry fluttered from others. Nearby, a street artist plays an accordion. Every so often, we would stop for a European coffee in little tiny cups, yielding about three sips. But they are so good. I try to make the sips last so we can just sit and watch the world go by.
Then back to the beach. This time armed with recently purchased water shoes to protect our tender feet. We sit and watch sunbathers burn themselves black, all the while smoking one cigarette after the other. It made us wonder about their future health with the double whammy. Nearby four middle-aged men play cards on a communal mat. A beer-walla comes by selling cold drinks. Children squeal as they ride the waves, reminding me of my children when they were young.
Later in the afternoon, we headed back to our hotel room and open a bottle of rose that we bought during our touring of some of the wineries a few days ago. Provence is renown for its rose wines. A taste of summer, the crisp and fragrant wine quaffed our post-beach thirst. Some phone calls home on Skype to our loved ones make us feel connected again, then we are off to sample another dinner of traditional Provence fare, with more wine of course!
France behind us now, I will miss speaking French but look forward to Italy, especially visiting Cinque Terre. But that is another story. Next stop, la Spezia.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Algonquin Park
Algonquin Park, July 2010
One of the highlights of this summer has been a camping/canoeing trip to Algonquin Park with my daughter Meg. She and I were very excited to finally be doing this trip, after talking about it for at least three years. Leaving the steamy, hot city behind, we headed out from Ottawa. Sweating profusely, we hit the highway, dreaming of cooling lake waters. As we progressed past Renfrew and Pembroke, the eight lane highway becomes four, then two, until eventually we were driving on a gravel road, dust rising like a plume behind us. Meanwhile, the landscape became more barren and remote.
As we drove, Meg and I discussed life dilemmas and our mother/daughter similarities: how we both love the Group of Seven, reading maps and crushes. We both love history, teaching and relating music to certain periods of our lives. Our closeness contrasted with the isolation outside the car window. After about two and a half hours, we stopped at a shack to pick up our life jackets, paddles and safety gear and headed another thirty kilometers towards the park. The sun continued to beat down, it was thirty-one degrees in the shade. Checking in at the park gate, we made our way to the beach front where we found our rented orange canoe waiting for us. It was aptly called the Alchemist.
The pristine Grand Lake beckoned us to swim, but first we had to load our gear: tent, sleeping bags, food for three days, rucksacks filled with clothing and camping utensils, and of course, our mosquito repellant. Oh, and two folding chairs. Our canoe ready, we paused to jump into the lake. The water cooled our burning skin. But we could not linger as we had a campsite to get to before dark. Slathering ourselves with sunscreen, we grabbed our paddles and launched our canoe. As we set off across the lake, the sun continued to beat down relentlessly, a haze rising in the distance. A couple of false starts caused us to return to shore to adjust the weight load in the canoe, its tippiness making us a little nervous. Soon however, we fell into a rhythm, the swishing of water echoing each stroke.
With map in hand, Meg searched for the first portage point. Eventually, the lake narrowed into a series of meandering curves, reminding me of life when we cannot see around the next corner, don’t know what to expect or exactly where we are going. Water lilies flutter on the water’s surface like dreams in our mind.
Soon we spotted our first portage, marked by a large yellow sign with a person carrying a canoe on his back and a measurement written underneath. Thirty meters, a piece of cake. Unloading all our gear, we carried it to the other side and then did the same with the canoe. Reloading, we paddled the narrows until we passed under an old train bridge and were greeted with the stunning vista of Stratton Lake, lined with towering forests of pines on all sides.
The sun continued to beat down and we splashed each other with our paddles to stay cool. Stopping at a beautiful camp site, we swam and I dozed off on a rock. We contemplated staying there but since we were not booked to stay on this lake, we knew we had to carry on. With a sigh, we struck out in search of our next portage at the far end of the lake. Forty-five minutes later, we found the rocky traverse. Sweating profusely, we stumbled over roots and rocks, back and forth until everything was on the other side of the rapids that had blocked our way.
St. Andrew Lake was pristine and clear. Delaying getting back into the canoe, we sat crouched in the refreshing water. We had no watch. Both teachers, we are used to looking at the wall to know the time. But there are no walls here and no clocks, so we were moving to our own rhythms. Refreshed, we canoed further into the interior; we appeared to be the only humans out there.
On and on we paddled. Fatigue set in and my shoulder blades began to ache. We canoed to the far end of the lake in search of a campsite as nice as the one we had seen on Stratton Lake. There was one lovely one, but for some reason there was a red cooler sitting by the water’s edge. I conjured up ideas for its existence there: campers were marking their spot and returning, or perhaps someone left it behind, or perhaps there were body parts in it, my macabre imagination kicking in. As much as we loved the spot, neither one of us was willing to investigate the red cooler. So we paddled on.
Eventually we settled on one of the sites that we had passed earlier, which of course meant paddling back. But it was worth it. Set in the pines, it had a sandy beach and a huge patch of lily pads. Happily we set up camp, pitched the tent, took a swim and poured ourselves a rum and coke. Clinking our glasses, we toasted our first day. Later, a visit to the ‘treasure box’ was a new experience for me, relieving myself while I sat on the wooden box looking into the forest. Back in the camp, the solitude was wonderfully peaceful. We collected firewood and filtered some water for the night. Meanwhile, I salivated at eating baked beans out of a can.
After dinner, Meg and I sat with our feet in the water and talked about life. About the males of Meg’s generation who are not ready to commit, who are reluctant to enter into adulthood with all its responsibilities. I wished that I had the answers to her nagging questions.
Dusk fell all too quickly and we scrambled to clean up. I tied our barrel of food high in a tree away from the campsite. We lit the fire but only sat for a few minutes, driven into our tent by the mosquitoes and fatigue. Settling into my sleeping bag, I contentedly anticipated a restful sleep. That was a delusional thought. Remember those lily pads? I should have clued that they were home to the noisiest bull frogs ever. All night long, they called out to each other with increasing crescendo, or was that just my fatigue making them sound like bullhorns? As morning dawned, I stumbled out of the tent, blurry-eyed and stiff.
After breakfast, Meg and I spent a couple of hours reading and writing. Eventually we grabbed our towels, packed a lunch, and headed out for a day trip, sans all our heavy gear. Gliding through the water, the canoe required less effort to propel. Our destination was Barron Cannon. Meg warned me that there would be lots of portages, which I was very excited about. The hours whiled away as we fell into the rhythm of paddle, portage, swim, paddle, portage, swim… The portages got longer, but each time we took on the challenge. I, in particular, loved this part of the trip. I had not portaged a canoe since I was sixteen years old. At 49, I was thrilled to see that I could still heft a sixty-five pound canoe over my head and hike the distance.
Lunch by a rushing falls, sitting with our feet in the water, was heavenly. Then back in the canoe. Paddle, portage, swim, paddle, portage, swim. By mid-afternoon, we finally made it to the Barron River. The canyon rose up on both sides, jagged sheets of rock ages old. Time immortal. Towering pines grow out of small crevices, defying nature. The river wound around, the sun continued to beat down. I leaned back on the gunnel of the canoe, closed my eyes and tried to imagine members of the group of Seven canoeing down the same canyon.
My reverie was soon broken by a darkening sky and worried, I suggested heading back to our camp site. We turned around and searched on the other side of canyon for first of the six portages that would lead us home. The traverse found, I volunteered and hefted the canoe over my head. Just as we reached the next body of water, the heavens opened and it began to teem rain. Gleefully, we stood there getting drenched. But there was no time to waste, so we loaded the canoe and paddled, rivulets of water running down our skin. Paddle, portage, paddle, portage; each time the portages becoming more and more difficult. The last one was the worst, with a daunting steep incline at the water’s edge. Sharp rocks glistened with rain. We haul the canoe up to slightly flatter land, then I portage it 850 metres, swatting the mosquitoes all the way. Back into the canoe. Paddle, paddle, paddle. Shoulders screaming, we finally arrived back our campsite, soaked to the skin but happy.
The second night, I slept better, the sound of the rain on the tent lulling me to sleep, my exhaustion drowning out the bullfrogs. As morning dawned with still no letup in the rain, we broke camp and headed back to civilization. But I vowed that I would return to Algonquin Park soon. The Canadian landscape will be forever etched into my mind.
One of the highlights of this summer has been a camping/canoeing trip to Algonquin Park with my daughter Meg. She and I were very excited to finally be doing this trip, after talking about it for at least three years. Leaving the steamy, hot city behind, we headed out from Ottawa. Sweating profusely, we hit the highway, dreaming of cooling lake waters. As we progressed past Renfrew and Pembroke, the eight lane highway becomes four, then two, until eventually we were driving on a gravel road, dust rising like a plume behind us. Meanwhile, the landscape became more barren and remote.
As we drove, Meg and I discussed life dilemmas and our mother/daughter similarities: how we both love the Group of Seven, reading maps and crushes. We both love history, teaching and relating music to certain periods of our lives. Our closeness contrasted with the isolation outside the car window. After about two and a half hours, we stopped at a shack to pick up our life jackets, paddles and safety gear and headed another thirty kilometers towards the park. The sun continued to beat down, it was thirty-one degrees in the shade. Checking in at the park gate, we made our way to the beach front where we found our rented orange canoe waiting for us. It was aptly called the Alchemist.
The pristine Grand Lake beckoned us to swim, but first we had to load our gear: tent, sleeping bags, food for three days, rucksacks filled with clothing and camping utensils, and of course, our mosquito repellant. Oh, and two folding chairs. Our canoe ready, we paused to jump into the lake. The water cooled our burning skin. But we could not linger as we had a campsite to get to before dark. Slathering ourselves with sunscreen, we grabbed our paddles and launched our canoe. As we set off across the lake, the sun continued to beat down relentlessly, a haze rising in the distance. A couple of false starts caused us to return to shore to adjust the weight load in the canoe, its tippiness making us a little nervous. Soon however, we fell into a rhythm, the swishing of water echoing each stroke.
With map in hand, Meg searched for the first portage point. Eventually, the lake narrowed into a series of meandering curves, reminding me of life when we cannot see around the next corner, don’t know what to expect or exactly where we are going. Water lilies flutter on the water’s surface like dreams in our mind.
Soon we spotted our first portage, marked by a large yellow sign with a person carrying a canoe on his back and a measurement written underneath. Thirty meters, a piece of cake. Unloading all our gear, we carried it to the other side and then did the same with the canoe. Reloading, we paddled the narrows until we passed under an old train bridge and were greeted with the stunning vista of Stratton Lake, lined with towering forests of pines on all sides.
The sun continued to beat down and we splashed each other with our paddles to stay cool. Stopping at a beautiful camp site, we swam and I dozed off on a rock. We contemplated staying there but since we were not booked to stay on this lake, we knew we had to carry on. With a sigh, we struck out in search of our next portage at the far end of the lake. Forty-five minutes later, we found the rocky traverse. Sweating profusely, we stumbled over roots and rocks, back and forth until everything was on the other side of the rapids that had blocked our way.
St. Andrew Lake was pristine and clear. Delaying getting back into the canoe, we sat crouched in the refreshing water. We had no watch. Both teachers, we are used to looking at the wall to know the time. But there are no walls here and no clocks, so we were moving to our own rhythms. Refreshed, we canoed further into the interior; we appeared to be the only humans out there.
On and on we paddled. Fatigue set in and my shoulder blades began to ache. We canoed to the far end of the lake in search of a campsite as nice as the one we had seen on Stratton Lake. There was one lovely one, but for some reason there was a red cooler sitting by the water’s edge. I conjured up ideas for its existence there: campers were marking their spot and returning, or perhaps someone left it behind, or perhaps there were body parts in it, my macabre imagination kicking in. As much as we loved the spot, neither one of us was willing to investigate the red cooler. So we paddled on.
Eventually we settled on one of the sites that we had passed earlier, which of course meant paddling back. But it was worth it. Set in the pines, it had a sandy beach and a huge patch of lily pads. Happily we set up camp, pitched the tent, took a swim and poured ourselves a rum and coke. Clinking our glasses, we toasted our first day. Later, a visit to the ‘treasure box’ was a new experience for me, relieving myself while I sat on the wooden box looking into the forest. Back in the camp, the solitude was wonderfully peaceful. We collected firewood and filtered some water for the night. Meanwhile, I salivated at eating baked beans out of a can.
After dinner, Meg and I sat with our feet in the water and talked about life. About the males of Meg’s generation who are not ready to commit, who are reluctant to enter into adulthood with all its responsibilities. I wished that I had the answers to her nagging questions.
Dusk fell all too quickly and we scrambled to clean up. I tied our barrel of food high in a tree away from the campsite. We lit the fire but only sat for a few minutes, driven into our tent by the mosquitoes and fatigue. Settling into my sleeping bag, I contentedly anticipated a restful sleep. That was a delusional thought. Remember those lily pads? I should have clued that they were home to the noisiest bull frogs ever. All night long, they called out to each other with increasing crescendo, or was that just my fatigue making them sound like bullhorns? As morning dawned, I stumbled out of the tent, blurry-eyed and stiff.
After breakfast, Meg and I spent a couple of hours reading and writing. Eventually we grabbed our towels, packed a lunch, and headed out for a day trip, sans all our heavy gear. Gliding through the water, the canoe required less effort to propel. Our destination was Barron Cannon. Meg warned me that there would be lots of portages, which I was very excited about. The hours whiled away as we fell into the rhythm of paddle, portage, swim, paddle, portage, swim… The portages got longer, but each time we took on the challenge. I, in particular, loved this part of the trip. I had not portaged a canoe since I was sixteen years old. At 49, I was thrilled to see that I could still heft a sixty-five pound canoe over my head and hike the distance.
Lunch by a rushing falls, sitting with our feet in the water, was heavenly. Then back in the canoe. Paddle, portage, swim, paddle, portage, swim. By mid-afternoon, we finally made it to the Barron River. The canyon rose up on both sides, jagged sheets of rock ages old. Time immortal. Towering pines grow out of small crevices, defying nature. The river wound around, the sun continued to beat down. I leaned back on the gunnel of the canoe, closed my eyes and tried to imagine members of the group of Seven canoeing down the same canyon.
My reverie was soon broken by a darkening sky and worried, I suggested heading back to our camp site. We turned around and searched on the other side of canyon for first of the six portages that would lead us home. The traverse found, I volunteered and hefted the canoe over my head. Just as we reached the next body of water, the heavens opened and it began to teem rain. Gleefully, we stood there getting drenched. But there was no time to waste, so we loaded the canoe and paddled, rivulets of water running down our skin. Paddle, portage, paddle, portage; each time the portages becoming more and more difficult. The last one was the worst, with a daunting steep incline at the water’s edge. Sharp rocks glistened with rain. We haul the canoe up to slightly flatter land, then I portage it 850 metres, swatting the mosquitoes all the way. Back into the canoe. Paddle, paddle, paddle. Shoulders screaming, we finally arrived back our campsite, soaked to the skin but happy.
The second night, I slept better, the sound of the rain on the tent lulling me to sleep, my exhaustion drowning out the bullfrogs. As morning dawned with still no letup in the rain, we broke camp and headed back to civilization. But I vowed that I would return to Algonquin Park soon. The Canadian landscape will be forever etched into my mind.
Monday, July 12, 2010
And so it begins....
Welcome to my travel blog! I’m thrilled that you have decided to join me on this year of adventures. For the past four years, I’ve been planning this sabbatical year. Finally, the last day of school has come and gone and my year off begins. Now, the definition of sabbatical includes a period of rest, study or travel. I hope to do all of these. I believe that a sabbatical is an excellent way to rejuvenate oneself, take a step back from our hectic lives and reassess our goals and dreams. It is a break in the routine and an opportunity to enjoy other pleasures that life has to offer. As a world traveler who has been to India, France and Italy numerous times, traveling is in my blood. I yearn to put my feet on foreign soil, to experience the unknown and to challenge my limits. And ‘get the horizon off my nose’ as my mother would say. Traveling forces me out of my comfort zone and allows me to learn more about myself and the world. I hope that it will also give me more depth to bring to my students in the classroom, especially in my Sociology course.
So, this year of sabbatical. I will be leaving in August for Europe, Nepal, Bangladesh and India, returning in December. The spring plans so far include discussions of Peru, Argentina, Poland and perhaps back to India to continue my work there. I’m trying hard not to plan the entire year away and let some things happen more spontaneously. I am very excited to experience new adventures, do lots of cycling and kayaking, meet new people, cultivate friendships around the world, read lots of books, launch my own book “Mommy, When Are We Going Home?” (coming out next spring) and work on my second (a cookbook for the Curry Original Restaurant in Kingston, Ontario). But I also want to spend time with our grandson and joy, Owen, as well as with our own children. And most of all, have the option of getting up in the morning with no plans whatsoever and seeing what the day brings. I look forward to sharing it with you. Stay tuned for my first adventure, canoeing and portaging Algonquin Park.
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