Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Responsible Traveling and the Ethics of being a Tourist
One of the luxuries of this millennium is the ability to travel to virtually any part of the world. As we baby boomers enter into our mid and later years, many of us are able to explore areas of the world that earlier we only dreamed of seeing. I have just been to my tenth country on this year long sabbatical and all along the way I have been blessed with incredible experiences and awesome sights. I sipped red wine in the south of France, hiked from one village to another in Italy’s Cinque Terre, stood in the Pantheon in Athens, Greece, marveled at the Blue Mosque in Turkey, circumambulated the Bodhnath Stupa in Nepal, got harassed in Bangladesh (okay, not so great), walked the beaches of Goa, India, zip lined in Costa Rica, trekked the ancient Inca Trail to Machu Picchu in Peru and searched for geckos with my grandson Owen in St. Lucia. Not too bad for nine months.
But there are issues that arise from traveling the world, concerns that are increasingly beginning to nag at me. The first one that comes to mind is the mountain of plastic bottles used by tourists. Keeping oneself hydrated is absolutely essential but potable water is not always available. A wise traveler will beware of drinking any tap water in any form, including ice cubes, unless they have a steady supply of cipro on hand. So the plastic bottles pile up. In Peru, my traveling partner Helen and I bought one bottle after another, in spite of the fact that we had water purification drops. We chose to put our trust in bottled water rather than our own treatment plan. On our hike to Machu Picchu, we were able to refill our bottles at each camp with boiled water, but that was only for four days. In St. Lucia, the heat drove my family and me to buy copious amounts to quench our thirst. We consciously put the plastic bottles aside, having been told that the island recycles. But later I watched in dismay as the manager of the villa threw them in with the regular garbage. I even attempted to boil water but the saucepan was only big enough to boil two eggs, let alone water for five people. In almost every country that I traveled lately, empty plastic bottles littered the side of the road, were thrown in ditches or lay scattered in waterways. Most surprising for this was Costa Rica, renowned for being an ecological island and St. Lucia, renowned for its natural beauty. It makes me feel very sad.
Then there is the other garbage. On our hike on the Inca trail, my trekking team all made a concerted effort to carry out every scrap of garbage that we generated. With the help of our porters, of course. But occasionally along the historic path we came across wrappers and bottles, discarded by others trekkers. Although not nearly as bad as photos that I have seen of base camp of Mount Everest, the trend was the same. The only saving grace is that according to our trekking guide, the Inca trail is cleaned every night as a concerted effort to preserve it. In Saint Lucia I often wondered where all the garbage goes generated by wealthy tourists. It is an island after all.
Another travel challenge is our carbon footprint. I’ve lost track of the number of flights that I have taken, it must be well over twenty in the last few months. Ask me how sick of airports I am. It worries me but I must confess that I am not quite sure what to do about my carbon footprint, given that I am a voracious traveler who needs her fix at least once a year if not more. Perhaps I will look into buying back my carbon footprint but worry that it is just another feel-good gimmick. Also, trekking ancient paths and climbing stone steps as old as Methuselah is enchanting but also worrisome as more and more areas of historic sites are being cordoned off, worn down from the footsteps of thousands upon thousands of tourists. I want my grandson’s children to be able to marvel at the imaginations of the ancients.
Finally, an issue that has been plaguing me for some time now is photographing the locals. I am as interested in people as I am in buildings, if not more. The life stories that old wizened faces have to offer beckon my camera. I try very consciously to be respectful of their privacy but it is not always easy. Some countries are more difficult than others. The Buddhist monks in their maroon robes in Nepal and the Sadus in India were very enticing but difficult to capture without offending. In Peru, the barrel-shaped women with bowler hats and very colourful dresses knew their uniqueness and always stretched out a hand for some coin in return for a snap. Some even went out of their way to dress in the traditional way, a child strapped to their back, another one in tow, complete with a llama or two. I never hesitated to give to them as I admire anyone who tries to do some sort of work rather than beg. One of the most fascinating photo-ops was on Lake Titicaca, Peru where just a handful of people live on floating reed islands, in reed houses with reed boats for transportation. The remote island of Taquille on the same lake was also fascinating, where men traditionally knit and women weave. Everywhere on the island, young and old men walked in clusters, a pair of knitting needles flying in their hands, a colourful ball of wool in their pocket. I tried my best to shoot only from a distance and never felt more like a tourist.
To all these issues, I have no answers. To not travel would be unthinkable for me. Travel gets the horizon off my nose. It makes me realize that the world is vast, that we are nothing but tiny ants on this earth. It helps bring perspective to our lives when we see the suffering of human beings in less fortunate countries. Travel allows us to enrich our lives but we must always remain mindful to enrich and not destroy the lives of those who grant us a vision into their world.
But there are issues that arise from traveling the world, concerns that are increasingly beginning to nag at me. The first one that comes to mind is the mountain of plastic bottles used by tourists. Keeping oneself hydrated is absolutely essential but potable water is not always available. A wise traveler will beware of drinking any tap water in any form, including ice cubes, unless they have a steady supply of cipro on hand. So the plastic bottles pile up. In Peru, my traveling partner Helen and I bought one bottle after another, in spite of the fact that we had water purification drops. We chose to put our trust in bottled water rather than our own treatment plan. On our hike to Machu Picchu, we were able to refill our bottles at each camp with boiled water, but that was only for four days. In St. Lucia, the heat drove my family and me to buy copious amounts to quench our thirst. We consciously put the plastic bottles aside, having been told that the island recycles. But later I watched in dismay as the manager of the villa threw them in with the regular garbage. I even attempted to boil water but the saucepan was only big enough to boil two eggs, let alone water for five people. In almost every country that I traveled lately, empty plastic bottles littered the side of the road, were thrown in ditches or lay scattered in waterways. Most surprising for this was Costa Rica, renowned for being an ecological island and St. Lucia, renowned for its natural beauty. It makes me feel very sad.
Then there is the other garbage. On our hike on the Inca trail, my trekking team all made a concerted effort to carry out every scrap of garbage that we generated. With the help of our porters, of course. But occasionally along the historic path we came across wrappers and bottles, discarded by others trekkers. Although not nearly as bad as photos that I have seen of base camp of Mount Everest, the trend was the same. The only saving grace is that according to our trekking guide, the Inca trail is cleaned every night as a concerted effort to preserve it. In Saint Lucia I often wondered where all the garbage goes generated by wealthy tourists. It is an island after all.
Another travel challenge is our carbon footprint. I’ve lost track of the number of flights that I have taken, it must be well over twenty in the last few months. Ask me how sick of airports I am. It worries me but I must confess that I am not quite sure what to do about my carbon footprint, given that I am a voracious traveler who needs her fix at least once a year if not more. Perhaps I will look into buying back my carbon footprint but worry that it is just another feel-good gimmick. Also, trekking ancient paths and climbing stone steps as old as Methuselah is enchanting but also worrisome as more and more areas of historic sites are being cordoned off, worn down from the footsteps of thousands upon thousands of tourists. I want my grandson’s children to be able to marvel at the imaginations of the ancients.
Finally, an issue that has been plaguing me for some time now is photographing the locals. I am as interested in people as I am in buildings, if not more. The life stories that old wizened faces have to offer beckon my camera. I try very consciously to be respectful of their privacy but it is not always easy. Some countries are more difficult than others. The Buddhist monks in their maroon robes in Nepal and the Sadus in India were very enticing but difficult to capture without offending. In Peru, the barrel-shaped women with bowler hats and very colourful dresses knew their uniqueness and always stretched out a hand for some coin in return for a snap. Some even went out of their way to dress in the traditional way, a child strapped to their back, another one in tow, complete with a llama or two. I never hesitated to give to them as I admire anyone who tries to do some sort of work rather than beg. One of the most fascinating photo-ops was on Lake Titicaca, Peru where just a handful of people live on floating reed islands, in reed houses with reed boats for transportation. The remote island of Taquille on the same lake was also fascinating, where men traditionally knit and women weave. Everywhere on the island, young and old men walked in clusters, a pair of knitting needles flying in their hands, a colourful ball of wool in their pocket. I tried my best to shoot only from a distance and never felt more like a tourist.
To all these issues, I have no answers. To not travel would be unthinkable for me. Travel gets the horizon off my nose. It makes me realize that the world is vast, that we are nothing but tiny ants on this earth. It helps bring perspective to our lives when we see the suffering of human beings in less fortunate countries. Travel allows us to enrich our lives but we must always remain mindful to enrich and not destroy the lives of those who grant us a vision into their world.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Costa Rica Part Two
Montezuma
As we head back down the rutted mountain road to Montezuma, this time in a shuttle van, Meghan and I discuss my rating of WOW factor. I have had many absolutely incredible experiences and sights during my expensive travels and have decided to rate them from one to ten on a WOW factor. A ten constitutes a combination of any of the following: a high adrenalin rush, incredible sights, a natural wonder of the world, a high level of physical activity or something that is very different from my everyday life. Some tens that come to mind immediately are Jaisalmer fort in Rajasthan, India; Cinque Terre, Italy; the town of Oia on San Torini Island, Greece, and my recent zip lining experience in Monteverde, Costa Rica. WOW.
I find that the more I travel, the harder it is to be impressed. As we leave Monteverde, I wonder if we are making a mistake leaving so soon with so much more to do there. One of the challenges of a short stay in a country is that one cannot see or do everything. And the transitions from one place to another have to be made quickly when there are only a limited amount of days. With this in mind, Meg has planned three days for us in Monteverde and three days in Montezuma. The remaining days in Costa Rica are designated for travel.
As we arrive in Montezuma, I worry that this hippy town will be too quiet, with not have enough to do. But I was mistaken. In our usual style, we check into one hotel but then scout around for another in the morning. As we walk down a dusty hot beach road, we are rewarded for our efforts. Beckoning us is Amor de mar, a beautifully maintained old wooden inn with a water front to die for. Hammocks attached to swaying palm trees call our names. A grassy lawn leads out to the ocean. Our steps quicken as we head inside to see if there are any rooms available. We are in luck, there is one room left. We leave a small deposit and dash back to our hotel for our backpacks.
Repacked and backs laden, Meaghan suggests we take a taxi, but of course, I see the walk as a gym workout, in absence of a gym. So we walk, and sweat. Excited about spending the next three days in the hammocks. Back at Hotel Amor de Mar, we don our bathing suits and head out to our hanging chairs. All of a sudden my desire for exercise is gone and I a m happy to sit and read my book. But every few minutes, I look up and marvel at the amazing views around me. The sun is scorching, perhaps because we so closer to the equator. Our white Canadian skin quickly begins to burn in spite of our 30 sunscreen and we decide to go for a swim at the beach right beside us. Then we jump in another swimming hole enclosed in rocks in front of us. Afterwards, we retreat back to the hammocks in the shade of the verdant palm trees. Meg brings me a glass of white wine and I feel pampered. Not one to sit still, I am finally brought to a halt, happily so.
One of our surprises in Costa Rica is how early the sun sets. By four, it is low in the sky and by six, it is pitch black out. We shower the salt water away, dress and head out for dinner. A delight has been the exceptional food. Each dinner we have is elegantly served and extremely tasty. The only downfall is that few hotels and restaurants accept credit cards and in Monteverde we attempted to withdraw cash at four different ATMS with no success. Finally in Montezuma, we are lucky and the one ATM machine in town works, dispersing both Colonnes and US cash. Just in time too. Otherwise we might have had to eat wieners and beans.
My world slows down as I switch gears into true relax mode. But the days go by way too quickly, punctuated by great meals, awesome fresh fruit drinks, swimming in the ocean, a small hike up to the Montezuma waterfalls, a dip in the natural pool beneath it and lots of reading. Meaghan and I discuss life and all its twists and turns and wonder what the future holds. We imagine her wedding (to whom and when as yet to be determined) on the grounds of this amazing hotel. It is truly a magical place.
All too soon, it is time to return to San Jose for Meg to fly back to Canada. I know that I will definitely return one day to Costa Rica, perhaps for a wedding, who knows. But for now I’m off to Peru to hike the ancient Inca trail to Machu Picchu.
As we head back down the rutted mountain road to Montezuma, this time in a shuttle van, Meghan and I discuss my rating of WOW factor. I have had many absolutely incredible experiences and sights during my expensive travels and have decided to rate them from one to ten on a WOW factor. A ten constitutes a combination of any of the following: a high adrenalin rush, incredible sights, a natural wonder of the world, a high level of physical activity or something that is very different from my everyday life. Some tens that come to mind immediately are Jaisalmer fort in Rajasthan, India; Cinque Terre, Italy; the town of Oia on San Torini Island, Greece, and my recent zip lining experience in Monteverde, Costa Rica. WOW.
I find that the more I travel, the harder it is to be impressed. As we leave Monteverde, I wonder if we are making a mistake leaving so soon with so much more to do there. One of the challenges of a short stay in a country is that one cannot see or do everything. And the transitions from one place to another have to be made quickly when there are only a limited amount of days. With this in mind, Meg has planned three days for us in Monteverde and three days in Montezuma. The remaining days in Costa Rica are designated for travel.
As we arrive in Montezuma, I worry that this hippy town will be too quiet, with not have enough to do. But I was mistaken. In our usual style, we check into one hotel but then scout around for another in the morning. As we walk down a dusty hot beach road, we are rewarded for our efforts. Beckoning us is Amor de mar, a beautifully maintained old wooden inn with a water front to die for. Hammocks attached to swaying palm trees call our names. A grassy lawn leads out to the ocean. Our steps quicken as we head inside to see if there are any rooms available. We are in luck, there is one room left. We leave a small deposit and dash back to our hotel for our backpacks.
Repacked and backs laden, Meaghan suggests we take a taxi, but of course, I see the walk as a gym workout, in absence of a gym. So we walk, and sweat. Excited about spending the next three days in the hammocks. Back at Hotel Amor de Mar, we don our bathing suits and head out to our hanging chairs. All of a sudden my desire for exercise is gone and I a m happy to sit and read my book. But every few minutes, I look up and marvel at the amazing views around me. The sun is scorching, perhaps because we so closer to the equator. Our white Canadian skin quickly begins to burn in spite of our 30 sunscreen and we decide to go for a swim at the beach right beside us. Then we jump in another swimming hole enclosed in rocks in front of us. Afterwards, we retreat back to the hammocks in the shade of the verdant palm trees. Meg brings me a glass of white wine and I feel pampered. Not one to sit still, I am finally brought to a halt, happily so.
One of our surprises in Costa Rica is how early the sun sets. By four, it is low in the sky and by six, it is pitch black out. We shower the salt water away, dress and head out for dinner. A delight has been the exceptional food. Each dinner we have is elegantly served and extremely tasty. The only downfall is that few hotels and restaurants accept credit cards and in Monteverde we attempted to withdraw cash at four different ATMS with no success. Finally in Montezuma, we are lucky and the one ATM machine in town works, dispersing both Colonnes and US cash. Just in time too. Otherwise we might have had to eat wieners and beans.
My world slows down as I switch gears into true relax mode. But the days go by way too quickly, punctuated by great meals, awesome fresh fruit drinks, swimming in the ocean, a small hike up to the Montezuma waterfalls, a dip in the natural pool beneath it and lots of reading. Meaghan and I discuss life and all its twists and turns and wonder what the future holds. We imagine her wedding (to whom and when as yet to be determined) on the grounds of this amazing hotel. It is truly a magical place.
All too soon, it is time to return to San Jose for Meg to fly back to Canada. I know that I will definitely return one day to Costa Rica, perhaps for a wedding, who knows. But for now I’m off to Peru to hike the ancient Inca trail to Machu Picchu.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Costa Rica: On the Road Again
March 2011
Part One
In spite of being on a sabbatical this year, I find myself at Toronto International airport on the Friday afternoon of March break. I am on my way to Costa Rica, in central America. This is traditionally one of the busiest days of travel for Canadians. Normally I try to avoid this time, but I am accommodating Meg’s week long holiday. However, she is not arriving until tomorrow, so today I travel alone. My anxiety level is slightly higher than usual. I attribute this to the two week long ear infection that I’ve been battling, making me feel like my head is under water. And also to the fact that I am not flying to either France or India, my most visited destinations. My comfort level with language, money and cultural customs is missing, as well as the friends that I always look forward to seeing in those parts of the world. But ever the adventurer, it is time to try something new. I have packed my backpack for three countries, which in itself posed a challenge with all the different activities planned, including a four-day hike up the Macchu Pichu trail.
Thankfully, today the flights are uneventful, pain free and blissfully short compared to flying to India. I check into the very quaint Hotel Santo Tomas in San Jose and upgrade to a room with a balcony and a breeze, enchanted by the gorgeous mosaic tile floors. It is late so all the establishments have closed. Meg and I would later notice that all through Costa Rica, restaurants close up very early and we would often be the last ones around at nine p.m. But tonight it is already eleven p.m. Out of luck, I go to bed hungry.
I spend the next day walking around downtown San Jose, particularly Avenue Central, for pedestrians only. The architecture is a mixture of lovely old classical buildings interspersed with ugly cement structures. Hawkers are everywhere, mostly selling local lottery tickets. I am surprised that they are not nearly as aggressive as in India. I sit in the window of a café sipping a latte and watch the world go by. The Saturday shoppers walk with purpose. Most of the women wear trousers, slightly overweight, their muffin tops extruding above their pants. The weather is not as warm as I had anticipated, perhaps around 23 degrees only. On the way back, I pick up some mangoes and a bottle of Malbec Argentinian wine.
I spend the late afternoon in my room, relaxing and catching up with friends and family on Skype. The last few weeks have been incredibly busy with the recent launch of my book, “Mommy When Are We Going Home?” so I am happy to unwind a bit and drink some wine. At eight o’clock, I get the call that Meaghan has arrived downstairs and run to gather her up in a big hug.
We spend the next morning exploring San Jose. We pause in front of a lovely old decaying palatial home that is for sale. “Oh Meg, let’s buy this. You could make pies and I could run a small hotel and sit on those ornate circular balconies,” I say. She laughs as we dream and make plans. We love doing pretends when we travel.
After lunch, Meg and I check out of our hotel and head for the local bus stop. We sit on wooden benches in a dubious part of town, waiting an hour for the ticket booth to open. Other backpackers join us. At two o’clock, we line up to buy our five dollar tickets to Monteverde and board the bus. It is not bad, the seats are plush, although dusty and the windows open. Meg and I find ourselves at the very back of the bus. Most of the travelers are women. A few extra seats remain. We settle in for we’ve been told is a four and a half hour ride.
As we leave San Jose, the landscape becomes more verdant. Costa Rica is incredibly hilly and the wind is always blowing. We are on the milk run and stop frequently to pick up locals along the way. Soon the bus is packed along with standing passengers. After two hours, we stop for a much needed pee break and Meg and I grab a snack of dried fried plantains and an iced tea. We stand around until the whistle blows and we reload to our same seats, anxious to get moving. But it is not to be. As we sit, Meg and I notice that our bus driver is over beside another bus helping someone who is working underneath that bus. We sit and sweat and sweat some more. But do not move. Fifteen minutes passes, then thirty. Our eyes do not leave our bus driver. He continues to stand by his buddy’s bus, handing him tools. We sit and stew. Finally there is some movement. Our driver comes onto our bus and yells in Spanish for everyone to get off and get on the other bus!
As the passengers on the other bus line up to load our bus, we all crawl off, collect our backpacks from underneath and walk hesitatingly to the bus that was just recently worked on. We pile on but soon realize to our dismay that we have lost our seats to the locals. I grab a couple of other seats for Meg and I but there is frustration as some of the ticketholders like us from San Jose are now without seats. Meanwhile our bus driver has disappeared so there is no one to help resolve the situation. Eventually a new driver gets on, resolves nothing and starts the bus. We sit and ponder the change of bus and driver. Perhaps he got a call from his wife to come home early? Perhaps a hot date? Or perhaps this bus could not be trusted to go wherever it was going? We’ll never know. Instead we try to sit back and not worry about what is wrong with this bus.
Sitting back however, is impossible. There is barely five inches between my seat and the one in front of me and I cannot put my legs forward. Meg’s seat is no better. She sticks her long legs into the aisle so I can twist mine sideways into her space. We remain in this contorted position for the next three hours. But at least we do not have to stand, like some others. The last hour up to Monteverde, we rattle up twelve kilometers of unpaved, rutted, washboard road that apparently the local Quakers refuse to be paved to keep the number of tourists down. By now, it is pitch dark but I get the feeling from the twinkling lights below that we are on the edge of steep drop-offs. Meg sleeps beside me, oblivious to the danger. We crawl ahead slowly, the headlights the only illumination of the steep and twisty road.
At nine o’clock, we finally arrive and pile off the bus with a huge sigh. We grab our backpacks and head out to find the Quetzel Inn, about two hundred meters away. But we are two hours late and our room with a view has been given away. We are assigned the very last room, a small camp like room that smells amazingly of cedar. Our luck turns when we find a fabulous restaurant, the Tree House, built around a fifty year old fig tree. Our exhaustion fades away as we sit outside by an outdoor heater, sipping red wine out of hand blown glasses. Meaghan’s mushroom filled crepes with a curry sauce are to die for. Happily we head back to our little room and fall into bed.
The next morning, after a breakfast of cold coffee and rock hard pancakes that Meg suggests we use for Frisbees, we search around for another place to stay. But the only place that appeals to us has no vacancies so we head back to Quetzel Inn and change into our promised room with a balcony. Not that it overlooks very much, only some clotheslines and gravel. One chair sits on the balcony. I ask twice for another but it never comes.
We spend three days in Monteverde hiking and zip lining. Our charming host, Grevin at Quetzel Inn makes suggestions for various tours and activities. “Perhaps you are interested in the ‘orse shit museum” he asks. “The ‘orse shit museum?” Meg attempts to clarify. “Yes, the ‘orse shit museum.” I stifle a giggle as we realize that he is referring to the ‘orchid’ museum. “No thanks,” we both say but opt instead for some hiking trips. Our first hike includes eight suspension bridges and beautiful paths through the forest. The rain forest is dense with verdant foliage but we don’t spot any birds. It is cool, necessitating a sweater.
Our second hike in the Cloud Forest Reserve is longer, with breathtaking with vast vistas and towering old trees. We cross the continental divide and hike for hours. But the highlight of our stay is the zip lining, a new experience for me. Meaghan and I rise early for a 7:00 start, thinking we must be out of our minds to be getting out of our warm beds to go zip lining. But it is so worth it. After a short shuttle ride, we are deposited at the center and geared up. A cheery staff member gives us a lesson on how to grab the line that attaches us to the main line with our left hand, put our right arm straight back and hold the main line, leaving our hand open in an O to allow the line to run through. To go faster, we are instructed to sit back more, cross our legs and bend our knees. To brake, we are to close the O with our heavily gloved hand and pull our body up. Excited, we set out to get started.
As we zip from one line to another, sometimes at a pace that barely allows me to catch my breath, we are clearly told at what point we need to brake on each line. Ideally you do not want to brake too soon and get stuck out on a line, necessitating one of the workers to scoot out to get you. That would just be embarrassing. Some lines are short, running through the trees while others crossed entire valleys. Traversing over the canopy of treetops, I am strangely relaxed and look around. The vistas are stunning. It was incredible to see valleys from a bird’s eye view. My braking goes well and I never have to be rescued. I am so hooked on this ‘sport’. At one point, my harness is changed around and I am instructed not to touch the line at any point. I superman over a long valley, looking face first down at the trees, my arms out like a bird. The variety of colours of green is amazing. The winds blows me gently sideways but not enough to worry me. It is exhilarating.
The finale is incredible. For some reason, I am the one in the lead of our entire group and also clearly the eldest. We are instructed to walk to the end of the long ramp, one by one. (Later I realize this is so that the next person in line does not see what is happening.) I walk out, wondering what this is all about. Two men hook me up to a 150 foot hanging rope. Intrigued, I ask what I am supposed to do, when to brake. “Just hold this line with both hands and don’t worry about braking,” the worker tells me. “Now bend your knees.” I don’t move. “Bend your knees,” he tells me again. A gate clicks open and I pitch forward into a free fall that reminds me of a recurring dream that I have had all my life. As I fall, my heart is in my throat until the rope jerks and I begin to swing like Tarzan. Three times back and forth I swing until a brake rope is thrown over my line and stops me immediately. Ecstatic, I want to run right back up the hill and do it all again. But alas, this is the end of my forty dollar zip lining experience for today. Meaghan follows after me, shrieking in fear and then in delight. We watch as others jump, some sounding very much like Tarzan. Only one person turns back after getting to the end of the ramp, refusing to jump. Tired, but happy, Meaghan and I head back to our hotel.
Sadly, our days in Monteverde come to an end all too soon and we prepare to leave. We have met some lovely people, ate amazing (although pricier than expected) meals and explored the rainforests. There are lots of activities and sights that we did not have time to do, but now it is time to head for the beach.
Monday, February 7, 2011
In Praise of Slow
Sabbatical(n): of the nature of a Sabbath or period of rest. Designating a period of leave from duty granted at intervals […] for study and travel
I recently had an epiphany. I am on a sabbatical but I am not resting. Instead, I am working frantically working on more than four major projects, cramming my days from morning to night. I had my epiphany after a particularly anxious day that ended in a meltdown by late-afternoon. Now, this was not my first meltdown, nor I’m sure, my last. I have a pattern of going full tilt, hell-bent-for-election until I crash. This time was no different. I sat in my home office, tears rolling down my face, staring at my computer. Immoblized and unable to focus. All of this was accompanied by an acute sense of unease, a nagging feeling that my life was spinning out of control. My head ached and I couldn’t concentrate as I stared at my to-do list for January, at all the unticked neat little boxes beside each task. It was almost February. I needed to get to work. But all I could do was cry.
My husband wondered what the fuss was about. After all, I am not teaching. “You are on a sabbatical, you have a year off,” he said. I cried some more. An hour later, I attempted to pull myself together for the visit of a girlfriend, but as we clinked glasses to cheer the Friday afternoon (her idea), I burst into tears again. Oh dear, this was serious.
Now I would describe myself as calm, in control, highly organized and extremely energetic person. All of which makes me an over-achiever. If I have heard it once, I’ve heard it a million times, “I don’t understand how you get so much done. I wish I had your energy.” But lately, I’ve been wishing that I could relax, do nothing and spend a day being unproductive. But the problem is that my brain will not shut off.
One thing I can do well when I am upset is fall sleep. Much to my husband’s chagrin. But as soon as I wake up, the mailbox in my head clicks open and my mind jumps into high gear. After my girlfriend left, I gave myself permission to go to bed early. The next morning, I tried to tame it by reaching for a book that had been sitting on my to-read pile for over two years, In Praise of Slow, by Carl Honore. Sitting at the kitchen table with a freshly brewed cup of coffee, I began to read. At first I raced across the words, using the speed reading techniques that I learned back in high school. Every few minutes, I jumped up to stir a soup I was making for lunch later, change the laundry and let the dogs out. Three pages into the book, I realized that I had not taken in one word. I guess speed reading a book about slowing down is a bit of an oxymoron, so I started back at page one. I had to do this three times before the words started to sink in. And sink in they did.
“Our lives have turned into an exercise in hurry, obsessed with being efficient; saving time, making every step count for three…We have become velocitized and have a constant need to go even faster.” It’s like getting on the 401 at Brockville, feeling like we are going fast at 100km/ hour. By Kingston we travel at 120km/hour and entering Toronto, we race along at 130km/hour just to stay with the traffic. In the same way, our lives have sped up to the verge of being out of control.
I first twigged into the realization that I had not bought into the full meaning of sabbatical when I found myself rushing frantically out the door to run an errand. I stopped suddenly, wondering why I was rushing. I had no deadline, no appointment, just my own self-made timelines. I was just running a simple errand; even the verb ‘running’ infers hurrying. So I cut my speed in half and carried on, but the anti-speed seed was planted in my head. At least for a few minutes.
As I struggled to analyze just where I was going wrong, I came up with some theories. I have always felt that each day is a gift from God and therefore should be lived to the fullest. What I have come to realize is that this does not necessarily mean jumping at every single opportunity and idea that comes along. And believe me, I have way more ideas than time. I need to learn to say no, or not now, or perhaps, never. Right. Easier said than done.
Then there is the time frame. My sabbatical is unlike retirement. It is finite. It ends in August. I have only so many months to jam in all my ideas. Oh, those damn ideas of mine. Another issue is that my sense of worth is based on producing and accomplishing. My father calls it Avery for Slavery. I call it work ethic out of control. And it doesn’t help that my husband is also a work-a-holic who works 80 hours a week and has very little time off. I find it hard to relax knowing that he is working so hard. So I renovate the house, reorganize my charity, write a cookbook, launch my first book and frantically plan the next trip.
I must admit that I have been very good at incorporating ‘travel’ into my sabbatical. I recently toured seven countries over four months and saw people relaxing everywhere. Scantily clad sunbathers laying on pebble beaches in France. Old men shooting the breeze on roadside benches in Italy. Muslim men having a picnic with their four wives in parks in Turkey. Men playing cards in the shade in Nepal. For the most part, I raced through the countries, as tourists often do, trying to see as much as possible, in spite of the fact that I had vowed that I would not do this. However, I did manage to spend many hours on balcony in Goa, slowly sipping my milky coffee or a late afternoon gin and tonic or two. Goa seems to be the only place where I can truly relax. I find it ironic that I allow myself to do nothing there but seem to be incapable of doing this in Canada. Unless friends come over. Then I find myself exclaiming to them, “ Thank God you’ve come, now I can sit down.” I can sit for hours and talk with cherished friends but I cannot sit still when I am alone.
I’m still reading Praise for Slow, two to three pages at a time, even though I am anxious to get to the How-To part of Honore’s message of slowing down. In the meantime, I’ve decided to make a few changes. Or at least try. (I can hear my friends laughing already.) Firstly, I need to train my mind to shut down for awhile. Stop listening to those voices in my head. After all, would I let anyone else order me around the way that those voices do? I also need to put things off. I have never been a procrastinator but perhaps it is a skill that I should learn. And I need to prioritize. The next time I make a list, I will go back and cross some things off of it. Finally, for the duration of this sabbatical, I am going to try to schedule a pajama day every week. One day with no obligations, no tasks to complete, no plans. A day to get up in the morning, dress or not dress and ask myself, “Okay, Crystle, what would you love to do today? Really love.” And give myself permission to do it. Wish me luck!
I recently had an epiphany. I am on a sabbatical but I am not resting. Instead, I am working frantically working on more than four major projects, cramming my days from morning to night. I had my epiphany after a particularly anxious day that ended in a meltdown by late-afternoon. Now, this was not my first meltdown, nor I’m sure, my last. I have a pattern of going full tilt, hell-bent-for-election until I crash. This time was no different. I sat in my home office, tears rolling down my face, staring at my computer. Immoblized and unable to focus. All of this was accompanied by an acute sense of unease, a nagging feeling that my life was spinning out of control. My head ached and I couldn’t concentrate as I stared at my to-do list for January, at all the unticked neat little boxes beside each task. It was almost February. I needed to get to work. But all I could do was cry.
My husband wondered what the fuss was about. After all, I am not teaching. “You are on a sabbatical, you have a year off,” he said. I cried some more. An hour later, I attempted to pull myself together for the visit of a girlfriend, but as we clinked glasses to cheer the Friday afternoon (her idea), I burst into tears again. Oh dear, this was serious.
Now I would describe myself as calm, in control, highly organized and extremely energetic person. All of which makes me an over-achiever. If I have heard it once, I’ve heard it a million times, “I don’t understand how you get so much done. I wish I had your energy.” But lately, I’ve been wishing that I could relax, do nothing and spend a day being unproductive. But the problem is that my brain will not shut off.
One thing I can do well when I am upset is fall sleep. Much to my husband’s chagrin. But as soon as I wake up, the mailbox in my head clicks open and my mind jumps into high gear. After my girlfriend left, I gave myself permission to go to bed early. The next morning, I tried to tame it by reaching for a book that had been sitting on my to-read pile for over two years, In Praise of Slow, by Carl Honore. Sitting at the kitchen table with a freshly brewed cup of coffee, I began to read. At first I raced across the words, using the speed reading techniques that I learned back in high school. Every few minutes, I jumped up to stir a soup I was making for lunch later, change the laundry and let the dogs out. Three pages into the book, I realized that I had not taken in one word. I guess speed reading a book about slowing down is a bit of an oxymoron, so I started back at page one. I had to do this three times before the words started to sink in. And sink in they did.
“Our lives have turned into an exercise in hurry, obsessed with being efficient; saving time, making every step count for three…We have become velocitized and have a constant need to go even faster.” It’s like getting on the 401 at Brockville, feeling like we are going fast at 100km/ hour. By Kingston we travel at 120km/hour and entering Toronto, we race along at 130km/hour just to stay with the traffic. In the same way, our lives have sped up to the verge of being out of control.
I first twigged into the realization that I had not bought into the full meaning of sabbatical when I found myself rushing frantically out the door to run an errand. I stopped suddenly, wondering why I was rushing. I had no deadline, no appointment, just my own self-made timelines. I was just running a simple errand; even the verb ‘running’ infers hurrying. So I cut my speed in half and carried on, but the anti-speed seed was planted in my head. At least for a few minutes.
As I struggled to analyze just where I was going wrong, I came up with some theories. I have always felt that each day is a gift from God and therefore should be lived to the fullest. What I have come to realize is that this does not necessarily mean jumping at every single opportunity and idea that comes along. And believe me, I have way more ideas than time. I need to learn to say no, or not now, or perhaps, never. Right. Easier said than done.
Then there is the time frame. My sabbatical is unlike retirement. It is finite. It ends in August. I have only so many months to jam in all my ideas. Oh, those damn ideas of mine. Another issue is that my sense of worth is based on producing and accomplishing. My father calls it Avery for Slavery. I call it work ethic out of control. And it doesn’t help that my husband is also a work-a-holic who works 80 hours a week and has very little time off. I find it hard to relax knowing that he is working so hard. So I renovate the house, reorganize my charity, write a cookbook, launch my first book and frantically plan the next trip.
I must admit that I have been very good at incorporating ‘travel’ into my sabbatical. I recently toured seven countries over four months and saw people relaxing everywhere. Scantily clad sunbathers laying on pebble beaches in France. Old men shooting the breeze on roadside benches in Italy. Muslim men having a picnic with their four wives in parks in Turkey. Men playing cards in the shade in Nepal. For the most part, I raced through the countries, as tourists often do, trying to see as much as possible, in spite of the fact that I had vowed that I would not do this. However, I did manage to spend many hours on balcony in Goa, slowly sipping my milky coffee or a late afternoon gin and tonic or two. Goa seems to be the only place where I can truly relax. I find it ironic that I allow myself to do nothing there but seem to be incapable of doing this in Canada. Unless friends come over. Then I find myself exclaiming to them, “ Thank God you’ve come, now I can sit down.” I can sit for hours and talk with cherished friends but I cannot sit still when I am alone.
I’m still reading Praise for Slow, two to three pages at a time, even though I am anxious to get to the How-To part of Honore’s message of slowing down. In the meantime, I’ve decided to make a few changes. Or at least try. (I can hear my friends laughing already.) Firstly, I need to train my mind to shut down for awhile. Stop listening to those voices in my head. After all, would I let anyone else order me around the way that those voices do? I also need to put things off. I have never been a procrastinator but perhaps it is a skill that I should learn. And I need to prioritize. The next time I make a list, I will go back and cross some things off of it. Finally, for the duration of this sabbatical, I am going to try to schedule a pajama day every week. One day with no obligations, no tasks to complete, no plans. A day to get up in the morning, dress or not dress and ask myself, “Okay, Crystle, what would you love to do today? Really love.” And give myself permission to do it. Wish me luck!
Sunday, November 14, 2010
St. Clare Oral School for the Deaf
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.
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.
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