Category Archives for travel

The March to Tibet

My first few days back in India were spent on the March to Tibet. The day before I flew into Delhi, 250 marchers set out on their way north towards the India-Tibet border after having spent 10 days in the capital praying for those Tibetans who died protesting for independence and participating in protests against China’s brutal crackdown and the Olympic torch relay.

I have been posting updates about the March from Dharamsala and Bangkok for the last 2 months that my colleagues on the March e-mail or call me with. Friends on the March have been calling me to tell me about how hot it was that day or how much they missed the iced coffee or their favorite breakfast spot back in Dharamsala. I’ve posted the photos they send and I have watched all the live streaming videos. But being there in person was entirely different.

Getting from Delhi to the where the marchers were camped – two days’ walk – took 8 hours. One person would point us in one direction, and then the next person would point us in an entirely different direction. Entire groups of people would surround me and my Tibetan friend as he explained in Hindi where we were trying to go, staring at us like they had never seen something so odd. We were crammed into an extremely noisy shared taxi with a dude who kept rubbing my knee and the other people staring at me. We were lost for hours with a driver who we ended up befriending because both he and my friend grew up in Nepal. We shared a dinner with him at McDonalds’ and in the end, he refused to let us pay once he learned that we were joining the March to Tibet. Eventually the driver left us at a hideous Western-style cinema hall that stood out like a sore thumb in the dingy dusty outskirts of Delhi, and we were finally rescued by two drivers from the March.

I spent the next 4 days as one of the marchers. I walked with them, sweated under the hot sun with them, splashed in the cool water at rest stops with them, ate with them, talked with them, was eaten alive by mosquitoes with them, and hummed along with their prayers and singing of the national anthem. I was reunited with the monks that I made practice media soundbites despite their broken English at the non-violent training before the March started. I made friends with the Western support marchers whose presence I had previously been very judgmental about. I overcame my own insecurities about bathing and squatting in the bushes surrounded by 250 monks and nuns. I had some Tibetan lessons. I got a tan. And I picked up an amoeba! It was 4 of the most fulfilling days I’ve had since I’ve been here. The dedication of the marchers and the volunteers who are making the march possible was so inspiring. They have given up the commitments and responsibilities of their daily lives to stand up for their country-men and -women, and for their country. It made me feel spoiled that being here and fighting for their freedom is my job, that I get paid to do this while they are sacrificing their livelihoods to do the same thing.

When it came time for me to leave, one monk friend came to give me a khata – the white Tibetan scarf given as a blessing for a safe journey. Even though I had only been with them for 4 days, I was given khata after khata, until they were falling off my shoulders. Normally when Tibetans thank me, I feel really awkward. But this time I was really touched. The marchers held my hand and we yelled “Bho Gyalo” – which has come to mean more to me each time I yell it.

As we drove away, I couldn’t help but wonder if there were some of them we would never see again. This thought has followed me back to Dharamsala and has left me an emotional blob, overflowing with a muddle of love, longing, frustration, anger, discouragement, and sadness. I’ve been running through scenarios in my head of what could be lying ahead for my friends. They could be arrested by Indian police and allowed no where near the border, which could frustrate them to the point where they do something drastic like self-immolation. They could hand in their registration certificates (their only identification as “foreigners” in India), plunging them into a legal quagmire. They could be ignored by Indian officials and allowed to approach the Tibet border. As they cross into their homeland, they could be shot by Chinese soldiers like those who were shot trying to escape over the Nangpa-la pass two years ago. Or they could be carted away to be tortured in Chinese jails. These thoughts have been overwhelming at times, making me alternately want to run away from it all and join them again. But in my stronger moments, I am committed to staying here so that when something happens to the marchers, we can make sure that the world knows. And when they reach Lhasa (or are forced to return to Dharamsala), I will be there to welcome them.

Finally… Dharamsala

I decided to splurge and go to Dharamsala for a Tibet activist training camp in the last couple of weeks. Dharamsala is a place that I have been dreaming about visiting for over 7 years. This was the perfect opportunity to finally see it, meet up with everyone I worked with before I left Canada, make new connections in the movement, and prepare myself for the work that awaits me back at home.

I spent my first day in India wandering around the Red Fort in Delhi, literally breaking into huge grins every so often because I was finally there. That feeling was magnified a million times over when I arrived in Dharamsala. It was a completely new town to me and yet seemed so familiar. Arriving there felt like coming home.

The first week I was in the area I spent at the SFT India camp, on a beautiful farm owned by a very generous Indian family. I had attended many of the workshops at previous camps in Canada (and co-facilitated some too), but my time spent working on Burma issues made me see the movement in a much different light. Problems and strengths were much more apparent. But most of all, I was reminded of the endless passion activists have once they get hooked on the Tibet issue – this is exactly the feeling that brought me back to the movement!

After the camp, I got to meet up with Dekey, a friend from home who had moved to McLeod Ganj in May. One of her friends took me around on his motorbike to all the sights… which I had heard of in tons of stories from friends at home who either grew up or lived in the town. And just like everyone said would happen, I totally fell in love with the place. My first time walking through town, I stopped to say ‘hi’ to 6 different people I knew! I finally got to go to a Tibetan temple and spin prayer wheels, eat at all the restaurants I’d heard of and see a concert at TIPA. I was also fortunate enough to be in town when His Holiness arrived from his most recent travels. The entire town lined the streets in their best chubas to welcome Kundun home and congratulate him on receiving the US Congressional Gold Medal. As always, seeing His Holiness is an emotional experience, and I was grateful to be an inji squashed between old amalas, palas and monks as they prayed for him and for us all.

One of the key issues in Tibet is the threat of cultural destruction. As I walked around Dharamsala, I was impressed that the culture seemed so alive and vibrant. I know that there are a lot of people devoting their lives to preserve Tibetan music, art, and religion, but I had no idea that Dharamsala would feel so “Tibetan”. At the same time, seeing the Tibetan flag blowing in the wind made me sad, knowing that across the mountains it has not been seen for over 50 years. When we ended the SFT camp, we took a moment to close our eyes and imagine what a free Tibet would look like and what it would feel like. To me, Dharamsala is the seed of what an independent Tibet would feel like. I imagined people surrounding the Potala Palace to welcome the Dalai Lama home, with the Tibetan flag flying proudly on every flag pole. I imagined the market in Lhasa full of pictures of the Dalai Lama and the real Panchen Lama. I imagined monks and laypeople debating politics openly in public. I looked around at my Tibetan friends singing their national anthem, and I imagined them singing it in Tibet at the top of their lungs!

Tibet will be free. We have passion and truth on our side, and we will never give up!

Having a Cold in a Hot Climate

Colds in Southeast Asia are a bizarre irony. At home, I was so used to curling up in a ball in my duvet with lots of warm tea and movies to nurse a cold or flu. But here, being sick is just one hot sticky mess. Even cranking up the air-conditioning so you feel cold enough for tea and a blanket doesn’t work. The second you step out of your freezer room, your body goes into shock with the surge of hot humid air. I don’t think the constant change from one extreme temperature to the next does any good… it seemed to only magnify my fever.

Meds… another battle. At home, you just grab some Tylenol Cold and Flu pills (night and daytime, of course) and a box Neo Citron, and you’re set. Here you have to dodge a million offers of antibiotics – Southeast Asian doctors’ favorite answer to any ailment, even if it’s not bacterial. You also need to be an excellent and unabashed mime (if you are somewhere where there isn’t so much English spoken) and you need to know exactly what you need. I felt like I was in medical school. I had to research the actual drugs in my favorites back home and find generic versions here, which were in weird doses and different combinations, obviously producing very different effects. I took a sinus decongestant that was 3 times stronger than anything back home, but didn’t have anything else in it. It also has the side effect of reducing my ability to sleep… obviously making recovery that much slower.

My advice to anyone planning on living overseas: take a bunch of cold medicine and pain killers with you! Nothing here compares.

Initiation to the Rainy Season

I witnessed today the biggest and scariest thunder storm of my life. I am normally the kind of person who watches in wonder and is amazed at the force of thunder, lightning and intense downpours. But I admit, I was a little frightened by this one! The thunder cracks were deafening and the rolling ones seemed to last for minutes. The rain came down in buckets and in jets from the roof, flooding the entire garden. And all of this lasted for almost half an hour! My first GIANT Thai thunderstorm!

Homesickness and Mae Sot

It’s a beautiful drive out of the flat Bangkok area, past huge termite mounds and ancient igneous intrusions, and up into the mysterious foggy jungle-covered mountains. I descended on the other side, out of the fog and into the interesting border town. Mae Sot is a miniature version of Thailand, where the cultural diversity is so strongly felt because of the concentration of people, but which is granted an unmistakable Burmese feel by the golden pagodas, the men in longyis and women with thanaka on their faces. The town is buzzing with NGO workers and volunteers, who fill the restaurants and bars with interesting discussions of their work (especially over some wine at Canadian Dave’s) or smile as they ride by on their bicycles. Every time I visit, I meet the most amazing Burmese activists who have risked so much to be there. And who continue to put themselves at risk of being arrested, fined or even deported in order to attend capacity-building and advocacy trainings.

On my second trip to the town in 3 weeks, I discovered that the hotel where I was staying at was also the final stop for refugees being resettled overseas. All day long, there were people sitting at the entrance of the large hall, looking longingly into the distance and the mysterious future that awaits them. I know the resettlement process is long and these people have spent years waiting, but this is the last time they will be within eyesight of their country. They are approaching the moment when they will have to leave all familiarity behind and embark on a journey for which they are undoubtedly not prepared, despite the efforts of organizations like the IOM, UNHCR and IRC – for who is ever ready for such an uprooting? In comparison to the whirlwind of emotions they must be feeling, the homesickness that has overwhelmed me in the last couple days now makes me feel selfish and weak. I come from such a sheltered life and a country of remarkable freedom – free from soldiers, bullets, landmines, hunger, systemic rape, torture, forced labour and displacement. I left my home voluntarily and can go back whenever I want. As I watch these people, my ability to return to my comfortable life surrounded by the people and the country I love begins to seem like an excessive luxury that these people don’t have. They are leaving the life and everyone they know behind, and it will likely be years before they can come back. I can’t begin to imagine what homesickness must feel like when you know you can’t go home.

Bangkok Parties

Party note #1: I took Losang out for birthday drinks while he was here, and after our first bar closed, we decided to check out the only other club on the block that was still open. Little did we know it was a “girls’ club,” as one of the guys there told us – it was a gay bar with a transvestite show later on! I thoroughly enjoyed myself, watching all the gay guys check out my very straight friend, smiling at the transvestites, and getting hugs from gay guys welcoming me to the place and asking about my “friend.” I even ended up acting as a bodyguard for Losang so that he wouldn’t get his ass grabbed again! I guess one time was plenty for him!! Besides the hilarity of being there with a straight guy who was really uncomfortable with the advances on him, I was really struck with the strong sense of community. I have been to a couple of gay clubs in Montreal – good places to go dancing with the girls and not have to be annoyed by guys hitting on you! – but this was really different. Everyone was so into it and supportive and treating the “girls” doing their show on the stage like they were fabulous divas. It was really interesting and touching. I guess it makes sense in a place like Thailand where transgendered people are so widely accepted anyways.

Party note #2: Tourists are crazy! The white people in the clubs on Khao San Road tend to think that because they are on holiday, they can do anything. They grab random people, drink way too much, wear traditional Thai hats while pole-dancing on stage, say retarded things, and hit on prostitutes without knowing it (for more on this phenomenon, see Party note #3). There is a difference between having a great time and just being stupid! There are times when I am almost ashamed to be considered one of the white, horny, obnoxious, and rude tourist masses.

Party note #3: I hate to say it, but some of the stereotypes of Bangkok are not that exaggerative of the reality. Sex is for sale everywhere, from covert dens labeled “massage parlours,” to the Patpong area, to most nightclubs. On one of my latest outings, a coworker who has been here for a couple of years engaged me in a game: he would give me 10 baht for every prostitute I correctly picked out at the nightclub. It was really hard! First of all, Thai girls really enjoy dressing up when they go out. I’m sorry if I offend anyone, but a lot of the girls dress just like the prostitutes. Any guy who has been to a club in Thailand has surely been hit on by a prostitute, with or without knowing it. And I think that a lot of guys probably have stories of going home with a girl, only to find out after sex that he has to pay for it… I’ve heard a couple of stories of just that happening! Anyways, it took me a while, but after closely watching them interact with several guys, I found about 6. And I made friends with a couple of them who kept dragging me to go dance. I think they felt sorry for me, standing there alone. Little did they know that I was quite well entertained – I’m sure it’s been done, but an anthropological study of the sex industry in Thailand would be very interesting and very fun to undertake! That is, until you get into the sad reality of girls being forced to be prostitutes and the violence and disease that I’m sure go along with such an industry.

Party note #4: Thankfully there are some fun places to hangout, with a significantly lower probability of hitting on someone of the wrong gender or profession. Last weekend I discovered the Saxophone Pub, a smoky lodge-type bar with live music every night. The night that I was there started off with a cool blues band covering some Hendrix before bringing a rasta on stage to sing a couple of songs. They were followed by T-bone, a huge 10-member band that was playing a really impressive mix of ska, jazz, funk, and soul, with a touch of latin influence… pretty much everything! It was totally wicked and just the kind of place I was looking for :) Definitely better than the prostitute pick-up bars!!

An Improving Tour Guide

It’s interesting trying to show someone around a city that you don’t know that well yourself! We got lost way too many times, but I think I managed to show Losang a few fun and interesting parts of Bangkok. In the process, I also learned a lot about this crazy city that I call home for the time being.

I finally got to see Wat Arun, a temple that I’ve been admiring from afar since I got here. But my favorite stop with Losang was a Muay Thai fight – you’re right, Owen, it really is wicked! Fighting is definitely not my thing, but this really is a cultural experience that should not be missed. Each match starts off with the fighters praying and doing dances to their ancestors and teachers, before they proceed to elegantly kick and punch the crap out of each other. Some of the matches were brutally hard to watch, but thankfully the crowd was just as entertaining as the fighters! The matches started off to a calm but attentive audience. The people betting on the fight were occupied analyzing each kick and punch, deciding on which fighter they were going to put their money. As the rounds progressed the crowd got rowdier, yelling with the landing of a punch on their chosen opponent or moaning when their guy got kicked. In the midst of the rising tension, the gamblers started calling to one another and waving their fingers (in what I assume are the amounts of their bets). Passive watchers rapidly joined the vocal and passionate masses. And like a rollercoaster, it ended way faster than it started, only to begin again with the next match.

One of the matches was between a Canadian and a British man ­– cultural appropriation caught in the act! Just like the Thai fighters, the two Westerners started their match with the traditional prayers and dances and the anthropologist in me couldn’t help but wonder if these customs actually meant anything to them. At first, I thought that the crowd would not really be into this fight – the highlight of the evening was the previous match, plus it’s two white guys! I was immediately struck by how different their fighting style was to that of the Thai fighters. The Westerners were a lot bigger and clumsier, fighting mostly with punches; the Thai fighters were much more elegant and were equally good at punching and kicking their opponent. After the first two rounds, the crowd definitely got into it – the white guys were surprisingly putting on a good show. I even stood up in support of the Canadian, much to the amusement of the betting men in our area! In the end the Canadian lost, after way too many punches to the head. I’m really surprised that he managed to walk out of there at all, but I guess dignity would have been an important factor.

So, I’ve been initiated into the world of Muay Thai and being a tour guide… and I’m ready for my next tourist :)

I am all of these: Consumer. Invader. Crusader. Seducer. Self-hating Westerner. Buffoon.

A Traveller’s Response to “There’s No Such Thing As Eco-Tourism” by Anneli Rufus.

I agree: colonialism isn’t dead. The dreaded word has crossed my mind on numerous trips in the past, but never more powerfully than in the last 5 months that I have been living in Asia. My relations to those around me have undeniably been affected by the notions of the consumer, invader, crusader, seducer, self-hating Westerner, and buffoon, all of which play into today’s form of colonialism.

I am a consumer of culture. I pay to see traditional dances and puppet shows, and to enter temples. I search out and relish new places, new experiences, and new foods. I may not buy typical souvenirs, but I avidly consume these new experiences. Similar to the way a fire consumes things, I have also destroyed the cultural essence of interactions by taking photos. As an anthropology student, I became really interested in the duality of photography as an art form and also as an ethnographic technique. While I can’t deny that a picture may be able to capture a ceremony or emotion, I have found that it often removes the human interaction that might have taken place in that moment. When I started being approached by tourists from Java asking to have their pictures taken with me, I understood just how alienating it can be to have a camera pointed in your face. All of a sudden, I was the odd one, the “other,” deemed to be so different and interesting that the mere act of me being there at the same time as them needed to be caught on film. I was really uncomfortable with the cameras pointed my way, openly or covertly. How then, can I turn around and expect people to let me take pictures of them? I can learn so much more about them (and they can learn more about me) by watching and asking the right questions.

I am an invader. This is not my place, and it never will be. Westerners in Bali may be able to speak Bahasa Indonesia, many become Hindu and eat local food, they may even marry a Balinese. But their skin will always be a different colour, and they will always be seen as a tourist once they step outside of their group of friends or the banjar (community) in which they live. I even found myself and my friends making that erroneous judgment. When I saw other white people, I instinctively thought that they were just tourists. It’s as if, because I lived there and hung out with mostly Balinese friends, I didn’t consider myself a tourist anymore. I have found that expats here in Thailand do the same thing. Loud, obnoxious and inconsiderate tourists make the farangs (foreigners) living here sink down in their chairs, and exchange embarrassed glances with one another, as if they are different than the tourists. You can feel this sense of superiority at the Foreign Correspondents Club in Bangkok every night, where expats mingle amongst themselves. They seem to think that they have adapted to and joined the local culture, and that this distinguishes them from the tourists, making them less of an invader. A wolf who sincerely considers himself a sheep is indeed an interesting phenomenon.

I am a crusader and a seducer, even if indirectly. My way of life and fundamental beliefs about society and relationships come through very differently in another country. In Bali, I got the distinct impression that people my age are extremely envious of what they see as the Western lifestyle and the values that entails. They want it for themselves at the expense of their traditional way of life. They want to be free and independent and travel the world, rather than having the responsibility of taking care of their families and contributing to the banjar. So while I haven’t directly and vehemently promoted my beliefs, they are being adopted by the younger generations. I haven’t tried to seduce locals to my way of life, but I can see it happening.

I am a self-hating Westerner. In the face of my Balinese friends’ deeply rooted religious beliefs, I felt spiritually confused and almost envious that their spirituality was intertwined with their daily lives. An argument with a guy named Wayan at the local drinking hole makes an excellent case in point for my own spiritual uncertainty. One night, Wayan said that Rastafari was a fashion style and not a religion. Amongst a bunch of self-proclaimed Rastas who weren’t rising to the defense of their beliefs, I felt compelled to argue the opposite: Rastafari has a strong biblical and historical basis like any other religion, with deep beliefs that influence how people live their lives. Some Rasta beliefs, such as dreadlocks, have been adopted by some people who may not know the deeper meaning of the symbols that they wear. My main argument was that religion cannot be reduced to what a person looks like on the outside, but is more fundamentally about what is in his or her heart. I told Wayan that to me, he didn’t especially look like a Hindu, sitting there in jeans and a t-shirt. At this point, he got really mad and started accusing me of being a stupid white person who knew nothing about religion, and especially nothing about Hinduism. He said that I didn’t believe in any god and the more I learned about other religions, the more confused I got. I was taken aback by the anger in his voice when he said this, but I totally agreed with Wayan. Despite that, there was no way for me to convince him that trying to understand and learn from different religions was acceptable position for me to be in. I may have finally won over Wayan and everyone listening when I said that I believed god was in everything, but his point had been made: a lot of Westerners are spiritually confused and I don’t think that any of us really like to admit it.

I am a also a buffoon. From the moment I stepped into Thailand, I have felt like a stupid white person – and nowhere nearly as much as in taxis. Most taxi drivers here do not speak English, so when I go out on my own, I carry along a little map my coworkers had made with my address and all the street names written in Thai. Since I cannot speak Thai, I thought this would solve the problem of communicating with taxi drivers. On my first time going home alone from a market which I had already been to several times with coworkers, I got into a taxi and showed the driver my map. He nodded and smiled so I thought he understood and knew where he was going. After our first wrong turn, I told him he should have gone the other way. He said something that seemed like “this is a better way,” so I gave him the benefit of my doubt. After 10 minutes and passing several large overpasses, I knew that this was not a better way and after a similar experience in Kuala Lumpur, I assumed that he was taking me the wrong way to make me pay more money. I held my cool as long as I could because I had been warned that Thais think it’s funny when Westerners get upset. But eventually I told him that I knew this way was more expensive and that this was a bad thing to do to farangs. He said something in Thai and kept driving. After an hour on what should have been a 5-minute trip, I realized that he wasn’t trying to scam me and that we were lost because neither of us could understand one another. I must have mispronounced my street name – there are 5 different tones on vowels in Thai! – and on top of that he couldn’t even read the Thai on the map I showed him. This has taught me that it is totally unrealistic to think I could live here for the next 9 months without having to learn such a hard language. However, people here who are learning Thai have pointed out the catch-22: while I want to learn so that I’m not such a stupid buffoon, my undoubtedly horrible pronunciation will only make me more of a buffoon as I learn!

All of this begs the question: why do we have this quest to travel and to go on so-called “adventure” trips? I think that we, as a society, have become bored. And I don’t just mean Westerners. In my experience teaching English online, I met hundreds of Asians who loved traveling just as much as Westerners. I think that we are not happy with our lives at home so we feel that we need to leave in order to get our heart beating again. In a world that so highly values commodities and personal accomplishments, traveling also gives us more bragging rights.

The more I’ve traveled, the more I’ve realized how lucky I am and how great I have it back home. I am privileged to have grown up in a society that allows me to study as much and whatever I want at school and that doesn’t limit the importance of my life as a woman to the house I keep, how happy my husband is and how many healthy children I have.

Does that mean that I will never travel again? Probably not. But these ideas definitely change how I travel. Being in another country, I am aware every day that I am a part of a new form of colonialism that makes me a consumer, invader, crusader, seducer, self-hating Westerner, and buffoon, all in one. It’s all part of the humbling experience of trying to understand another culture, whether you are passing through as a traveler or are trying to settle in.

Nyepi – the day of silence

March 19th marked the beginning of year 1929 on the Balinese calendar. The ceremonies actually began two days earlier, with most Balinese going to temple or to the beach to pray that the evil spirits would not come to Bali and cause problems. The second day is for the ogoh-ogoh. Every community had spent the last couple of weeks building these giant statues that symbolize evil spirits. What began as a simple bamboo frame was built upon, layer by layer, until the finished product emerged – evil spirits ranging from traditional ones that you would see in Barong dances, to mohawked punk rockers waving their middle finger in the air, to a freaky thing that looked exactly like the creature from The Grudge! Each ogoh was mounted on a checkerboard bamboo structure and carried by a group of 12 to 15 young boys or men. They were carried down the lanes formed by the crowd that had gathered on the freeway. Traffic was backed up on the entire island as the ogoh-ogoh, accompanied by their own musicians, alternately danced, ran, and sauntered through the crowds on their way to the beach where they were finally burned. The whole ogoh-ogoh event symbolizes the banishment of the evil spirits that would take place the next day.

By midnight, all of Bali begins to settle down. For the next 24 hours, there is absolutely no human activity on the entire island! No one leaves their home. The sky above the island becomes a no-fly zone to all aircraft. Traditionally, no one is supposed to make any noise or use any artificial light. The day is supposed to be spent in meditation. During those 24 hours, the evil spirits return to Bali but when they see and hear nothing, they assume the island is uninhabited and they leave for another year.

We may have talked, used candles after dark, and even used electricity to listen to music for a while, but the silence and calm in a place that normally veers toward the chaotic was powerful. The birds and frogs were not drowned out by motorbikes or blaring music. You could actually even hear the leaves rustling in the trees. And the stars that night were remarkable – probably the best I’ve ever seen, and I was standing in the middle of a city!!! With absolutely nothing to do, I was more relaxed and at peace than I have been in a long time.

After such a beautiful day, the whole world seems so noisy in comparison. Part of me wishes that we could have Nyepi every month – imagine how peaceful people would be if there were regular relaxation periods with nothing to do!