India: love it, but how much?

As a tourist India has been an adventure, but as a student it has been upsetting.

It's the amazing fun India that leads visitors to fall in love with the culture and excitement of the country, and in many cases start to emulate the Indian way of life (or aspects of it). The French embassy unofficially calls the extreme version of this "schizophrenic India"; a term they apply to nationals that require rescuing after doing something only locals should do. Fully submerging in or drinking from Mother Ganges on the Varanasi ghats, which lies beyond the point where the water starts to run septic or at the point where trash, floating animal carcasses and raw sewage rattle your senses, being one key example.

After a month in India and a week to go I can say I've been able to let go and feel comfortable in this country.

India's rich history means that wherever you go there is something to see: a 13th century Jain temple with 1,400 carved columns, no two the same; an ancient fort still used today; another fort with powerful architecture, excellent views and detailed rooms preserved from the time when maharajahs were powerful; and, the head of Shiva carved into a rock and periodically washed by tides on a popular beach in Goa.

Religion is there too, adding colour and depth to everything. Ganesha - the elephant headed god for good luck - is in auto rickshaws, offices and shops all over the place. In one shop trying to sell saris to Steph I spotted a rat casually walking along the merchandise. The owner informed me of the rat's religious significance and then fed it some chapatti. Transportation of all forms is routinely held up in cities by cows, allowed to co-exist on the streets only because of their holiness. Diwali, the festival of lights, takes place in October and is a time for thunderous fireworks. On the main day of the holiday our yoga instructor in Udaipur invited us into his home to meet his family, eat a special meal, and dodge his son's arsenal of bangers. And last, are the holy men who loiter in the squares and near the temples contently watching the day go by.

History and religion are fine, but it's the travel and adventure that motivate me, including, the auto rickshaw journeys down crowded streets; convincing the bicycle-rickshaw driver to let me drive him where I want to go while in Agra; the camel trek in Thar desert complete with dinner under the stars after viewing the most beautiful sunset I've ever seen; cruising by scooter to the beaches and towns of Goa with the rhythm of the last of the season's monsoon rains tapping and crashing all around us; avoiding bats in Jaisalmer's fort, rats in the Agra train station, monkeys at dusk at a hill temple in Jaipur and cows and dogs absolutely everywhere; and last, getting a hot chai tea to my berth after traveling overnight by train to a new place just waiting to be explored.

Picture me now - Jodhpur pants, Nehru collared shirt, and open-toed sandals. I've got a pirated copy of the White Tiger in one hand and a banana lassi in a clay cup from a street stall in the other. After reading a few pages that provide some insight into the real India and finishing my sour yogurt drink I'm confidently walking the streets without a care about the mess that lies beneath my exposed toes. I'm finding the train station rats cute, instead of counting them in dread. I'm on a full Indian diet and embracing all washroom facilities - even those found on the train. I'm comfortable in India and have fully adopted the traveler's very pseudo and luxurious version of an Indian way of life.

But -- I can't get too comfortable here, I've been a student for far too long.

Today we arrived in Varanasi, India's most holy city; the Canadian Embassy doesn't have to worry about me. You can be sure that no part of my body is going to submerge into the Ganges during our visit here. I get that it is holy, but how anyone can regularly bathe in such polluted water is beyond me. I've really taken to India and all it has to offer, but there's a lot that keeps me from getting too comfortable.

We got hassled by touts daily and they got the better of us a couple times (Mr. Raj of Jodhpur I'm looking at you in particular). We had our fair share of stomach upsets and sore throats. And, because of these things anxieties ran high the whole time concerning scams, security and health. But these minor annoyances aren't what really stopped me from fully embracing India. Rather it's the state of the country in more general terms that keeps me from getting too comfortable.

It's heartbreaking to see so many dirty children on the streets working to survive rather than learning in schools. Just as it was sickening to see an elderly woman live out the last of her days covered in flies and suffering outside the steps of a busy store. The poverty in India is as sad as I was told it would be, but that doesn't make it any easier to accept.

Trash and pollution are inescapable, period. There are garbage piles everywhere you go, from narrow pathways to Goan beaches, and from temple entrances to the middle of busy streets. If these garbage piles have not been set alight then they are feeding grounds for rats, goats, pigs, dogs and cows. The air quality in Delhi and Agra was so dehabilitating that we were unwilling to spend more time than we had to in either place. Now, on a per capita basis Canadians produce far more waste than the average Indian, of that there is no dispute, however, I am left thinking that there is almost no waste management in India. Garbage piles and thick air must be taking an enormous toll on the health of Indians - I feel it and I've only been here a month.

Oddly enough a giant decaying Agra tourist map on a billboard outside the main Agra train station brought a lot of this into focus for me. I took a picture because at first I thought it was funny - in a cynical sort of way. At one of the main points of arrival for the Taj Mahal, India's most recognizable tourist attraction, there's nothing more welcoming visitors than a destroyed 30 year old sign. As I was taking the picture a nearby auto rickshaw driver softly said, "I know, I know. I'm sorry, my government is broken." Now fixing this sign should hardly be a priority for Indian governments given the situations I described above, but it's presence there in the state it's in combined with the auto rickshaw driver's sad statement seemed to suggest an element of hopelessness about the state of affairs.

Now, for me as a tourist corruption has just been a minor annoyance, but for many Indians it must be a death sentence. In the White Tiger the main character's father dies of TB in an understaffed rural hospital because of a scam that allowed doctors to falsely claim compensation for seeing patients in public rural health facilities when in actual fact they worked full time in private hospitals. Throughout this fiction the main character is witness to considerable government corruption. After witnessing such profound poverty and mess in much of India I can't help but wonder how accurate an account this book really is.

So, I have valued my time in India, but I'm even more aware of just how lucky we are to live in Canada. As we leave India my thoughts are definitely focused on a lot of the problems we witnessed.

Shopping in India: I say "no thanks" and they say "why not"

My thoughts: My shopping desires mirror the tee-shirt for sale here in Varanasi: "no rickshaw, no boat, no hash, no silk, no hassle." For that matter, I also don't want the amusing tee-shirt, your postcards, or to be brought to any shop or factory. Yes, I think fair trade is very important, but I can never be sure that your silk or wall-hangings are made the way you say they are. I'm up for a conversation, but not if its only purpose is to serve as a bridge before trying to sell me something. Yes, I remember you, we spoke yesterday, and no sorry, I still don't want any silk (sorry Mom(s) and new sisters, just kidding, or am I?). Please, after I tell you I am Canadian, but decline your merchandise, don't tell me that you think I am an American as a way to get under my skin, it doesn't work, or maybe it does... just a bit. All this hassle really puts a damper on things. Yes I know I'm a tall fellah, and yes, I guess you could say my dad is tall too. Shhhh, don't yell out down the street that you've got big sizes and can have ever bigger ones made if need be. It's super awkward. I can see the big shirts right there, and don't want them anyway. I brought clothing with me, that's what's in my bag, sorry. Oh man, I wish we weren't in this store, here comes the complementary Masala tea that we will pay for 1000 times over if we buy something here. They are wasting their time on me. I guarantee that I will not buy a thing, no no no. Why did I buy that? Did I overpay? Look at the stitching it's barely holding itself together. I wish I knew how to bargin, where's the exit. Don't look so upset, me buying anything here was a long shot anyway. Everyone is just trying to rip me off and I'm tired (and sick, no details on this though). I hope none of the sales people in India are reading this. Steph, we're outta here!

The people selling stuff to tourists in India: Here comes another one. Will they just ignore me? Will they humour me when I ask their name, where they are from, and if they'd like to see my shop, buy my postcards, try on my funky hippy pants, or take a ride on my autorickshaw. Chances are they'll just stroll on by, answering my questions in part, but fail to stop and converse for the follow-up section. The follow-up section is the best part! That's the part where I segway from pretending to be interested in knowing anything about them to selling them something they don't need. I don't mean to be rude, but I've seen a lot of tourists walk up and down this street today, like everyday, and they're always just rushing on by. They get to parade all over my fine city with their super fancy camera pointing and clicking in a million directions. They don't have a care in the world. Gap year? backpacking? here for a couple-weeks? Sounds lovely. I've got merchandise to move, but most importantly mouths to feed and rent to pay. If they've got a camera like that, hiking space boots, and plane tickets all over Asia, surely they can come to my shop and spend a few Rupees on something they don't really need. They just need a bit of convincing and reminding about what I've got... they're in relax mode, not a care in the world. I'll just have to stand out here on the street and spend the whole day reminding them what's inside and how great it is until they come in and look. I might even follow them up and down the lanes a bit, in case their memory is even shorter than I suspected. My shirts are good quality I tell them, but they're not. My scarves are real silk, well a percentage is. Of course it's real saffron, well it's not, but with enough insisting I'll show you the other better looking fake stuff. If my segway works and I convince them they're interested we'll have a finical fight. I'll start at a high price I think they should pay, because I am sure they're rich. They'll start at a low price they think they should pay, because they know what I'm selling is not worth a fraction of what I'm saying it is. I'll pretend their offer is too low, they'll pretend mine is too high. In the end we'll reach some sort of compromise. If I sense a bit of an ego in my opponent I'll let them think they drove me down to the lowest price, no one ever has. In the end I'm certain of 3 things: (1) they paid too much by Indian standards (2) they paid too little by Western standards, and (3) if they are bouncing around the world for leisure whether they can afford it or not, they can stand to part with some money in my shop.

Egypt-Israel-Jordan Borders: Put on Your Serious Face

"It's the journey, not the destination" is certainly not true when traveling overland to Petra, Jordan from Egypt. The expression is equally untrue when traveling the same route in reverse in order to get from Jordan to Dahab, a resort town along Egypt's stretch of the Red Sea.

100 years ago there would have been little distinction along this 20 KM stretch of deserty coastline at the peninsula of the Red Sea, aside from a Turkish outpost and a bit of settlement here and there. Today getting through the region requires navigating the border crossings at Taba, Egypt; Eilat, Israel and Aqaba, Jordan. If a university degree in Political Science taught me anything about this part of the world it's that a lot has happened here in the last 100 years - so much that it's amazing there are border crossings between these places at all.

I'll go over the return trip back to Egypt because I thought to remember as much as I could so I could share it here. The return trip, like the first time through, took a few hours. The weather was blistering hot, border fees blew our daily budget apart and the only time I smiled was when I was smiled at.

Before we got to the crossing on the outskirts of Aqaba we had to find the Egyptian consulate in town and get another visa in order to enter Egypt. 3 hours later we were in a cab to the border with Israel. We met a couple of New Zealanders who had been "trecking" in Jordan and decided we'd all cross the borders together to save on transportation costs.

The Jordan side had a pre-border checkstop. So, we all got out of the cab under a welcome arch (for traffic coming the other way) and showed the young fellows with big guns what was in our bags. This was also the first time of twenty that we would show our passports to officials over the course of the day (between borders and Egyptian checkstops). It was at this point it occured to me that if these nice New Zealanders were smugglers that Steph and I would likely see the inside of a jail along with them - don't worry they wern't or if they were they were good at their job.

Then we showed our passports to get into Jordan's border control site where we were directed to the first window to get a stamp. Passports stamped we were then directed to Window 10 to pay an exit tax of 7 Dinars each. We were efficient in Jordan and had no Dinars left, so we shuffled across the street to the arrivals side to the exchange booth. Oh rats! That explains why there is no one around, the banker and most of the rest of the border staff was off to prayer! We hung around a while longer, got the Dinars and got a second stamp.

Second stamp in place and we're ready to exit Jordan... after one final passport check, maybe the first four inspectors missed something.

100 meters in the hot sun divides Jordan's border control from Israel's border control. We haul our packs over. There is no line so we're right to the front. The first distiction between the Israeli border and the Egypt and Jordan borders is that the post is mainly staffed by young women. The second distinction is that they really examine your bags and reason for travel - we met Westerns who were denied entry here (one fellow due to his involvement in pro-Palestine NGOs).

After a passport check - at this point I am no longer putting it away - my bags are loaded up on to the X-Ray machine and sent through... then back, then through again, then back, and so on for about five minutes. Our New Zealand friends almost left us.

Finally, they ask to inspect. They hone in on my junky gold painted metal 6 inch tall camel sculpture. Great, now they know I'm a sucker for mass produced tourist junk. I was tempted to tell them that I got a good price or it's for my niece, but I didn't and, sorry Georgie, it's not.

At least they smiled at me, we were all happy the camel sculpture was what it was. They scanned my bag a couple more times, it was good, no elephants, horses, cows or idols... yet, wait till we try leaving India next month.

Then a few more people checked our passports. They stamp an entry stamp on a seperate piece of paper incase you have onward travel in Syria. Syrians don't allow entry to people with passports containing Israeli stamps - remember poli sci. This separate piece of paper thing is pointless as an exit stamp from Aqaba, Jordan and an entry stamp from Taba, Egypt can mean only one thing: you were in Israel.

Now we're in Eilat, Israel. Looks fairly basic, small beach resort with a bit of industrial shipping; not that impressive, much like Aqaba. The 15 minute cab cost us 20 USD. The driver complained about the development in Aqaba and how they're trying to compete with Eilat. That evening while chowing down on some mezza (pita and dips) in Dahab in a beachfront restaurant it was quite clear that neither of these places had a thing on Egypt's Red Sea holdings.

At the Israel-Egypt border there are some fees to pay, about 25 USD each. I guess that's the charge for vigilant baggage scans. We paid the fees, got stamped and then walked 100 meters to Egypt's border at Taba.

Low and behold a plugged in manned security site with a bit of scrutiny, Egypt's Taba border must be taking lessons from Israel. Though the integrity only goes so far - while checking our bags and passports the security officers tried to offer us overpriced transportation to the Taba bus stop or our onward destination.

This time the camel was in my pocket, which meant the fuss was transferred from the x-Ray machine to the metal dectector. They gave it a good look over, realized it was tourist junk and handed it over. Steph suggested it was more trouble than it's worth... for a split second I wasn't sure if she meant the camel or travelling like this.

After we filled some forms, swore to not having swine flu, and had our visas and passports examined we were ready to roll.

Next stop was Taba bus station to catch the bus to Dahab for some serious relaxing. We waited in the sun for hours. Once on the bus we stopped at a good 5 checkstops for passport control and paid some dubious "Sinia tax" to an un-uniformed "official" - bogus.

I guess that could be a whole blog entry on its own, but as we've been in India now for 12 days my focus is now firmly on this amazing place!

Friendship through the Ipod Touch

(Edits/Pictures to follow)

The tiny size and simplicity of the Ipod Touch has made it the perfect travel companion for our trip. When there is wireless internet it's a fully connected mini-laptop capable of Skyping, Facebook'ing, Blog'ing, emailing and surfing. Offline, saved web resources and travel guide PDFs have been infinately useful for finding locations and learning about key attractions on the fly. During the afternoon downtime when temperatures in Egypt and Jordan get too hot to bare we've been able to talk to friends and family, catch up on the news back home, play games, and download episodes of 30 Rock.

Now, before you say this little toy of ours is denying us the full travel experience, I'll share a story about a friendship the Touch helped us forge in Aqaba, Jordan during our visit to see Petra.

Our hotel there had WIFI, so after dinner we parked ourselves in their laid back Bedouin louge and logged on for some desert-style surfing. We were heading to Dahab next and wanted to book some accomodation.

After a brief chat about where we were relative to key Middle East locations we were on Google Earth to confirm what we already knew. And just as we did that, the smell of cigarette smoke strengthened from behind us and a soft voice asked how we were, where we were from, and with a widening smile, what we were doing.

I remarked that we were on Google Earth, checking out the area. The soft spoken man removed his sandals and sat down next to us in the lounge. Over the course of the next two nights we would learn that he was the hotel owner, a long time resident of Aqaba, a loving grandpa and very involved in Aqaba development projects.

He leaned in closely to see the satelite image and recognized the area as Aqaba and the Red Sea. He leaned in even closer and was visibly excited at the touch screen feature that enabled me to move around the map and zoom in and out with ease. At this point it was clear: he wanted on.

He called the waiter over and in Arabic asked for three mint teas. By the time the teas arrived he was familiar with the touch screen feature and had shown us where his house was in town. Next, as we sipped the teas, we travelled over above the hotel. on the screen the older satilite image revealed only his hotel and desert all around, yet now all around us there were several other inns. He remarked that for years he was the only hotel in the outskirts of the city but recently things had changed; Aqaba was booming, hoping to become a top destination on the Red Sea - Jordan's answer to Dahab or Sharm. Before his hotel the sand East of town was all Saudi territory, now it's Jordanian, but flush with Saudi development dollars.

At this point he was resting on his side supporting his head with his hand and all three of us were fixed on the screen.


He scrolled over to another spot on the edge of the city where there had been some development and then told us all about his involvement with a US Aid funded water treatment plant. He asked us where we leaved relative to Chicago and Las Vegas, two cities he had visited to gain more knwoledge related to water treatment.

At which point he handed back the Touch and I flew us over to the West Coast of Canada. We showed him Vancouver Island, our community James Bay, and Beacon Hill Park.

After a brief chat about Petra he was up and gone. The next evening after touring Petra via a special deal orcastrated by our friend we returned to the same spot for some more mint tea. Within minutes he was back, this time with his young grandson.

His grandson was visibly excited. The grandfather sat close and quickly lit his first of many cigarettes. He was pleased to hear that we enjoyed Petra. By minute 2of the Petra conversation the grandson was basically climbing all over the Bedouin coushins and his grandfather. Both sets of eyes were firmly fixed on the Ipod,they didn't need to say anything; they were there to check out Google Earth.

I handed over the Ipod and the grandfather proceeded to show his grandson all the landmarks we had seen the night before. Once that was done Steph and I leaned in more closely to see what was going on. Just then we were whisked eastward out of town towards the Saudi border.

They spoke in Arabic, everything was moving too fast. With the passing of a thick yellow line one thing was certain: we were no longer in Jordan. A foreign, but known name appeared on the tiny screen. We stoppoed breifly in Jeddah, but the grandson was uninterested. He interupted the steady travel we had grown used to from his grandpa by touching the screen and jerking us Eastward further into Saudi territory.

The grandpa regained control by lightly nudging the excited child away. Under his control we steadily arrived in the holy city of Mecca. Once we were above the Haj - the most holy site in the holy city - he demonstrated his mastery of the touchscreen by instantly zooming us in from what appeared to be 60,000 feet to just above the buildings. We saw the people gathered around below, the grandfather and grandson were visibly excited. Though the grandfather had previously made the pilgramig to Mecca, this was clearly a first. It's very cheesy to say, but we had basically all connected around Google Earth on the Ipod Touch.

Next, the grandson asked if he could show us a video on YouTube of his favourite actor, when no videos were found of this Egyptian star he resorted to looking up Mr. Bean. We finished the evening by laughing at the antics of Rowan Atkinson.