tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65467208102823597352024-02-18T17:32:24.526-08:00Rick's Turning PointReconnecting to family, earth, and core sources of Joy & meaning.Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.comBlogger385125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-28728337203110785542015-07-13T21:48:00.000-07:002015-07-13T21:48:06.828-07:00LAST last dayToday really is my last last day in Canada. Sitting at the airport after a beautiful, exhausting week/month of goodbyes and leavings. Last day of school, last day of work, last soccer practice, dance performance, neighbour dinner, friends beach walk. Last drive past the most beautiful vista on Vancouver Island (Bench Road at Wilson, when the road from the highway suddenly opens up to rolling hay fields with the mountains behind and the sun/moon always throwing crazy sideways light). Last meal from Auntie Marj (buffalo) and last bottle feeding of Jackson (new baby buffalo). I blurted out at my last men's group that I was about done with leaving and ready to start living.<br><br>
In the midst of those beautiful goodbye's there was scarce time for contemplating what comes next. Friends kept asking how it felt to be going to Costa Rica, and all I could stammer was how good it felt to be present right here, right now, fully living the rich blessing that is our life in the Cowichan Valley.<br><br>
Then when we finally left the island, there were these last 10 days of camping, visiting Uncle Roy's ranch in the Quesnel hills, supporting G's team winning bronze in the provincial cup (3rd best team in the whole darn province!). Driving over 1,200 amazing BC miles (thanks for the car,mom1) through canyons, evergreen mountains, high plains ranchland and deserts, green crystal lakes, forest fires, and as many Dairy Queens as a team of teenagers could wrangle. We live in a diverse, awe-inspiring part of the world - Monteverde will be equally but differently beautiful, but I will always know what I'm coming home to in 2 years.<br><br>
Then today, the real last day, was about everything except me and my trip. Dropped the family at the airport at 6am, then retrieved the dog (Snug) and spent 3 hours checking her in. Back to our squatter house in Vancouver to spend some hours of laundry, cleaning and caring to show deep thanks to those dear friends. And a note and some money for the neighbour girl who watched Syd the cat during our trip, and her parents who jumped in with some logistical burocratic acrobatics. Then an hour washing my mom's car inside and out to show more deep thanks. Then pizza with good ol' Uncle Phil in gratitude for him caring for Snug for the week, and all he gives our family. A day of honouring just some of the many people who have supported this transition in surprising, all-the-shades-of-the-sunset ways.<br><br>
Now AT LAST it's just me and a cat in the airport, 3 hours early. Realizing that I need to re-read all the emails from Costa Rica helping me get my head in to the game. And the job description. And even my job application, what made me want and believe this to be Right. Realizing that I have no real idea what it's going to be like, what I'm going to do each day - okay, I always knew that I didn't know that, but realizing now that it is just a little scary. My head believes, from experience as well as faith, that all I really need is openness and commitment to make this work, and that flexibility and lack of pre-conceived notions is the best way to enter. But that little piece that would like to Know kinda wishes I knew my schedule, what my co-workers' voices sound like, how that fancy job description translates into a job. That my Spanish was already one-month into being back in the flow. That my wife and kids weren't coming 12 days after me (visiting family in Chicago - more of the celebrating supportive good people in our lives). That I already knew what Head of School really looks and feels like.<br><br>
It'll all come soon. Two families have offered to cook my first dinner tomorrow, and another invited us to a community welcoming potluck at the butterfly gardens. First day of work comes the morning after. First trip to the beach (working trip with my admin team) this weekend. First meeting with Spanish-speaking staff, first fresh mango, first time asking for the local discount price in the shops and restaurants, first Meeting with our new Quaker community. The lasts are finally over, and it's time for some firsts again.Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-35313866464184264342015-06-30T06:20:00.002-07:002015-06-30T06:20:42.943-07:00Leaving tomorrow for Costa RicaYes, tomorrow. For 2 years. Which is why I shouldn't be blogging. I've posted two pieces about this move on our family blog - <a href="http://wildsidefamilyadventure.com/">http://wildsidefamilyadventure.com/</a>
Feeling deeply held by this community, and 100% committed to coming back after 2 years. This is Home.
Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-27460918584873433462014-08-09T23:07:00.001-07:002014-08-09T23:15:44.268-07:00Neighbours For Sale<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI-NMfG-qWQ-z8_xVwlY9Sfg3rxfOzUX5Ur80w6O_l_udO8GeR6RORX1Xp0f6dK1l2k1nL-OoyU09ikHIhq3px9LO1r8IE1rd-fWgX55mOwc6AAI-TodAEQx18bl_D0-8X_TRS1b1mkfs/s1600/For+Sale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI-NMfG-qWQ-z8_xVwlY9Sfg3rxfOzUX5Ur80w6O_l_udO8GeR6RORX1Xp0f6dK1l2k1nL-OoyU09ikHIhq3px9LO1r8IE1rd-fWgX55mOwc6AAI-TodAEQx18bl_D0-8X_TRS1b1mkfs/s320/For+Sale.jpg" /></a></div>Empty. Desolate. Our ideal communal property feels like it's been ripped through by a tornado. Our dear neighbours have left. <br><br>
When we bought this property, it was the beautiful 5 acres, the barn, the farm, the trees that made it feel perfect. But then we found out that it came complete with a neighbour family of 3 kids. So we instantly had 5 children on our land, then aged 4,5,6,7 and 8. Various renting families and others in nearby houses have bolstered the gang to as many as a dozen, but these five have been the core.<br><br>
When I think about the most beautiful part of our children's, and our family's, early years, it will always be these children. Weekend mornings we would wake up to a happy bubble of whispers and movement and games and singing and conspiring of 5 or more children in the living room. Sarah and I would lie in bed thinking that Adam and Patty may think they're getting the best of this deal by getting to sleep in, but we get to wake up to this happiest of sounds, then spend our morning puttering and interacting with these beautiful growing children.<br><br>
The tell-tale rattling sound of the front-door window always makes our boys jump out of whatever they are doing to run to the door - "The neighbours are here!" Driving home from anywhere, especially from a trip away, we always look up the driveway to see if they're home, the boys usually tumbling out of the car at the bottom of the driveway to run next door and check in.<br><br>
Over the 6 years, different passions and routines came and went as the kids grew, including: <br>
- board games (Settlers of Cataan, yatzee)<br> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJrQCuLBOePK71Q9HpqB9dH3rSDnQn9ygQ4bPSFLoxAVz9BjO6NPGbUsC0uuOyzQszzxI4wtmoY2uGbhqVNdLAWNYjUpl4DkimSLH-yoOKGsBTmwLlMuJvbqAG4y7oytA7_h8b6rlcTE/s1600/Neighbours+snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJrQCuLBOePK71Q9HpqB9dH3rSDnQn9ygQ4bPSFLoxAVz9BjO6NPGbUsC0uuOyzQszzxI4wtmoY2uGbhqVNdLAWNYjUpl4DkimSLH-yoOKGsBTmwLlMuJvbqAG4y7oytA7_h8b6rlcTE/s400/Neighbours+snow.jpg" /></a></div>
- arts (drawing, leggo, origami)<br>
- bow and arrow making <br>
- selling flowers at the roadside stand<br>
- bike jumps, skateboards, scooters<br>
- water fights<br>
- sledding and snowboarding and snowplay<br>
- sports (street hockey, softball, basketball, air hockey...)<br>
- music (Annie, country, then Adelle, Waving Flag, Macklemore...)<br>
- hockey cards, hockey cards, and more hockey cards<br>
- "hanging out" and whispering<br><br>
And oh ya, those kids came with parents. Wonderful parents who cared for our children with love, shared parenting ideas and challenges openly with us, included our kids in their outings and trusted us with their precious young-uns unquestioningly. Wonderful adults who handed us keys to their spare car on our first day here - "Here, this can be your spare car too." Friends who shared meals, fires, tools, food. People we could depend on.<br><br>
We were supposed to keep growing up together. See them graduate, get married. Instead, they have left for California. The driveway is empty, the front door window doesn't rattle, the strongest thread of this childhood tapestry has been broken. We can't tell bored, bickering siblings to "Go to the neighbours!" I don't have a ready posse of 10 kids to help corral the buffalo when it's time to take him for processing in September (see photo below).<br><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaKh_cUQpKfWyMhF_8AaUgFw3LeqFyXtKOIs3BnZ_H4rXwJl7CvcTSjnu8pezryiQSo0fNcRKq4ABoYUBWQ3oqamolFXr5uvMI2iakicFLPR1gw3jJhcVtXyAY3Y_DCfdkBdCxD53DhT0/s1600/Neighbour+kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaKh_cUQpKfWyMhF_8AaUgFw3LeqFyXtKOIs3BnZ_H4rXwJl7CvcTSjnu8pezryiQSo0fNcRKq4ABoYUBWQ3oqamolFXr5uvMI2iakicFLPR1gw3jJhcVtXyAY3Y_DCfdkBdCxD53DhT0/s320/Neighbour+kids.jpg" /></a></div>
So we must redefine what this land means to us. We still have amazing land, beautiful long-term renters, good kids less than a minute walk away, and an extended community to reach out to. Maybe this is a call for us to strengthen those connections, now that the easiest and naturalest of communal children has ended. And to stay open to whatever new family or people move in, and what new magic can be created with them.<br><br>
So, there's not only a house for sale in Cowichan Station, but the potential for community. For 6 years it took the form of this amazing free flow of children and energy. That will never happen again in the same form, and this writing is a form of celebrating and releasing that pattern so that there's room for someone and something new to take its place. <br><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTi7D9qA6KqKwmtyAUgDvWnH1u8Vazhv1f7i9oPTJKzj1bIM605HbkUyPVjMn6l0Rpgk2UYFYYjqE5fpEpmurzDZmyWKKIAHdDWf6T0A9_RQLs3VfGIKoeaDVIBHBqBFhUCNvtwo79Ykw/s1600/Neighbours+boats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTi7D9qA6KqKwmtyAUgDvWnH1u8Vazhv1f7i9oPTJKzj1bIM605HbkUyPVjMn6l0Rpgk2UYFYYjqE5fpEpmurzDZmyWKKIAHdDWf6T0A9_RQLs3VfGIKoeaDVIBHBqBFhUCNvtwo79Ykw/s400/Neighbours+boats.jpg" /></a></div><br><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimunCSKjFehPU31YBUCryTEYiQXTGUvKknQrDZroFWccIdFjfNZNxRFiN_msBhecvpkVivQcr1pU6ZXFbnRAhteslXio3jBFeKUBjTGQDqKwdYkmF9EIcNfSALBIER0kdlvaD-G2Sn4kU/s1600/Neighbours+flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimunCSKjFehPU31YBUCryTEYiQXTGUvKknQrDZroFWccIdFjfNZNxRFiN_msBhecvpkVivQcr1pU6ZXFbnRAhteslXio3jBFeKUBjTGQDqKwdYkmF9EIcNfSALBIER0kdlvaD-G2Sn4kU/s400/Neighbours+flowers.jpg" /></a></div>Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-22887837090987063972014-04-06T09:29:00.000-07:002014-04-07T09:11:39.915-07:00Co-operatives in Myanmar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEQQpgIEuQ5Se89nu7dxeyMszFXc7m-Ws0wDJVLpaG0yuwVYMi9e6egXxmL5bxYsCXUzHLLVwKWg87Fn0BxiEzs7KDZm1cNEXjHhbJdv-zUP9kZm_l8KBkjuL_pgV5Jh4VsExNLjM8mzo/s1600/20140122_143002+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEQQpgIEuQ5Se89nu7dxeyMszFXc7m-Ws0wDJVLpaG0yuwVYMi9e6egXxmL5bxYsCXUzHLLVwKWg87Fn0BxiEzs7KDZm1cNEXjHhbJdv-zUP9kZm_l8KBkjuL_pgV5Jh4VsExNLjM8mzo/s320/20140122_143002+small.jpg" /></a></div>For the past three months, I was in Myanmar supporting the co-operative movement on behalf of the <a href="http://www.coopscanada.coop/">Canadian Co-operative Association</a>. Bringing a Canadian and international perspective to a movement that is both old (in the stale, entrenched sense) and new (in the sense of great potential).<br><br>
<b>The first part</b> of my job was to design and pave the way for a "New Model" co-op, working with sesame farmers in the "Dry Zone" in the hot middle of the country. I was unable to ever meet with these farmers due to government authorization snafus (see "<a href="http://ricksturningpoint.blogspot.ca/2014/02/late-night-eviction.html">Late Night Eviction</a>"), so I had to be learn about the co-op scene through visits to neighbouring co-ops, government officials, and non-profits doing similar work in other regions. Through this creative process I uncovered the challenges and opportunities we would be facing, including:<br><br>
Challenge: Co-ops have been around for decades, but as an implement of the former government's socialist movement, hence some negative associations for Myanmar people.<br>
Opportunity: I demonstrated how co-ops in Canada and around the world have a higher success rate than private businesses. Then we created a business plan for the farmers' co-op that showed how farmers would increase their income (ie, it fits into a profit-oriented capitalist model).<br><br>
Challenge: Co-ops are currently a central part of the government's poverty alleviation plans (good!), but narrowly conceived as just a way of channeling much-needed micro-credit loans to farmers and small businesses.<br>
Opportunity: I was able to give multiple examples from Canada (all here in the Cowichan Valley) of other types of co-ops and co-op activities. We then designed the farmers co-op to include farmer education, joint seed and fertilizer order, technical support for uniform planting and harvesting techniques (thereby ensuring higher quality yields), and finally joint marketing to avoid the middle man and ensure fair dealings with purchasers.<br><br>
Challenge: Co-ops are seen basically as corporations, owned and run by others, often with the suspicion that the co-op management is corrupt.<br>
Opportunity: The pilot co-op will of course emphasize proper elections, reporting and accountability, and education will centre on the member-owned, "self-help" principle of co-operatives. More concretely, farmers expect that whomever they sell their sesame to should pay them right away, then take the product to market and recoup their costs plus profit. They initially expected this of the proposed pilot co-op too. Instead, we are putting it back on them -the co-op is not some other business buying your sesame; the co-op is all you farmers coming together, pooling your product, having elected representatives sell it on your behalf, then returning the money to you. This delayed payment is the single biggest challenge, and probably the most important innovation to make this truly a member-owned, member-operated co-op.<br><br>
<b>The second part</b> of my assignment was to be the first on-the-ground person for the Canadian Co-operative Association (CCA) in Myanmar, mucking around to see how CCA might establish a long-term presence in the country. I met with other NGO's, governments, co-ops, and the Co-op University/College network to see where CCA might be able to play a role. Despite limited time and chaotic/changing schedules, I was able to identify several areas where CCA would be a important partner, such as:<br>
- teaching and curriculum review at the university and training colleges<br>
- partnering with other NGO's who are doing large-scale development projects, so CCA personnel provide the co-op design and training expertise<br>
- convene a network of other NGO's and agencies working in the co-operative sector. Great interest was expressed in regular meetings and correspondence to share training materials, project opportunities, advocacy, mutual education, and creating a consistent approach to co-op development by agencies from around the world<br><br>
I was the first of 3 Canadian co-op technical advisors to go to Myanmar this year. The Saskatchewan farmer/co-op developer who took my place got to actually start the farmer education and buy-in process, and the third person will hopefully complete the work by getting the co-op up and running, while also continuing to develop national and international links for CCA's future projects. My other blog posts have been about the amazing personal learning and family experience we had, but professionally this was an extremely rewarding contract. My respect deepened for the Canadian co-op movement and what we have to share in other countries, gave me new tools and perspectives to bring back to <a href="http://www.freerangeconsulting.ca/co-op-development.html">my co-op development work here in Canada</a>, and I believe that the foundation was laid for a successful pilot co-op and long-term program for CCA in the region.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGrhm8hr9Yd3_MGq4t61Jdpm76Dr74AfYmlDNrmPBBnADj3qzVtKIzJdbe-RmcnK77161VWOBXgMN5fVxNZHALk8QwaixvQB8LuhNW9OiyRGU5JgvftjQvzddpZZ2IQ5HL0RdwzCWVSYk/s1600/20140205_141603+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGrhm8hr9Yd3_MGq4t61Jdpm76Dr74AfYmlDNrmPBBnADj3qzVtKIzJdbe-RmcnK77161VWOBXgMN5fVxNZHALk8QwaixvQB8LuhNW9OiyRGU5JgvftjQvzddpZZ2IQ5HL0RdwzCWVSYk/s400/20140205_141603+small.jpg" /></a></div>Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-57738298312730078172014-02-21T08:45:00.001-08:002014-02-21T08:51:55.147-08:00Late Night Eviction<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdhsMhyphenhyphenCMx1DcAuZ3x4WVYmyfhx-4B_B3wajLezrtcctAzS8LIAZIn5p1qzOFVfSQZijhxpjuS0vwbO_Ea7w-b7katfq45Xb9Tn59bttjifEsFJ3qJy9_CxyoW42th1YY3r2c9hnKkrOU/s1600/embrace+marketwoman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdhsMhyphenhyphenCMx1DcAuZ3x4WVYmyfhx-4B_B3wajLezrtcctAzS8LIAZIn5p1qzOFVfSQZijhxpjuS0vwbO_Ea7w-b7katfq45Xb9Tn59bttjifEsFJ3qJy9_CxyoW42th1YY3r2c9hnKkrOU/s400/embrace+marketwoman.jpg" /></a></div>
For almost 3 months now we’ve been living and working in Myanmar, sharing photos and writings about beauty, cultural learning, spiritual growth, and friendship. All of that is true, but what I haven’t shared is the undercurrent of frustration and legal challenges culminating in being literally run out of town in the middle of the night. <br><br>
This whole time I have not had “travel authority” – legal permission to live and work in this Township. I have a house, staff and office here, but am not officially allowed to use them. After over a month we got a letter from the national Minister of Co-operatives authorizing the project, but we still had to await “remarks” from the Regional “Prime Minister” and immigration and co-operative departments, then the District, then the Township immigration and administration authorities. It meant that I could visit co-operatives and partner agencies all over the country but not consult with the farmers I’m here to design a project with; I could meet with my staff quietly at my dining room table, but only sneak into the office before or after hours to “quickly” do emails (which takes over an hour each time). <br><br>
It also meant that for the first 2 months we moved our family to 23 different hotels. Finally the most local level of government – the Quarter Administration – took pity on our emotional and financial plight and quietly granted permission to move into the house. The huge exhale of “We Are Here” relief, and inhale of “Welcome” and friendship I’ve been writing about, started then, just 3 weeks ago (Sarah made me double-check – we slept exactly 21 days in that fuzzy pink love nest). <br><br>
Then it all fell apart, in the final week. At 10am on Wednesday, 3 days before we our final departure, we received official “oral” permission from the Regional level to live and work here. But at 10pm on Wednesday, we were informed by the Township level that we’ve been illegally staying in our house and given 15 minutes to pack a bag, wake up the kids, and leave town. By 11pm we were safely across the river in our old hotel, desperately trying to hold onto the neighbourhood warmth we’d been basking in, and honestly worried about arrest or deportation. <br><br>
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Today they have given us permission to go back to the house just to pack up our things, but under strict rules to not leave the house and to be out before sunset. We are not allowed to go to the market to pick up our clothes from the tailor, can’t take our favourite walk past the noodle-maker’s bamboo house, can’t play one last game of soccer or chinlone with all the neighbourhood youth. My mom arrived the morning after to find us in a hotel across the river instead of our home. She flew 17 hours and 14.5 time zones to visit us here, and all she’ll get to see of our town is through the bars of our windows. <br><br>
This abrupt ending is in sharp contrast to the endless warm embrace of the people of Myanmar – presumably even the same people whose official government role forces them to take this inhospitable action. I wonder what inner conflict they are feeling between what their heart would want to do and what they believe their laws tell them they have to do. I’m never allowed to even meet with them, which is probably a good thing since I too vacillate between wanting to yell at them and feeling compassion for them. <br><br>
Compassion – that’s a good word. Also patience. Acceptance. Embrace. These have been the lessons of Myanmar. We only got 3 weeks of living in the place we thought we’d have 3 months, but they were rich, real and full. We travelled and saw much more of the country than expected, and felt held and awe-struck and blessed everywhere we went. I did not have permission to follow my very ambitious and very detailed workplan, but still managed to creatively accomplish all the goals.<br><br>
The legal restrictions and complications may have confined our stay here, but they did not define it. The people and culture of Myanmar were the real Stuff of our stay, and our family’s own resilience and togetherness the Strength. Today the house will be flooded with people who genuinely Know and Care for us, giving and receiving presents and hugs and tears. How can I remain angry or frustrated at our eviction, or even sad at our leaving, when we’ve been gifted with such lessons in love? <br><br>
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PS – I wrote a whiny, apologetic Please Please Please letter to immigration, and they did allow us to be outside the house today. So the boys got to proudly parade their Grandma through the market, we got a final visit with our tailors (who as always insisted on feeding us), and there were even more tears and hugs and presents than I could have imagined. The twins got permission from the school headmaster to stay home all day with us, and there were rarely less than a dozen people helping us pack and feel held. A perfect ending to a perfectly bizarre and beautiful episode of our life.
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Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-59300983972449903162014-02-20T18:01:00.000-08:002014-02-20T18:07:52.560-08:00The Myanmar Testosterone Club<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwk7ZdV1sFeVxG1iqfX5d0vsvemQC9joDotvks-yMSbmgtRNjUpGaLEOuB7XCdLn0GO0GK7RbR1dDMHVw1LZvKS2oBLIv3DJNoroXbOJRFi4apiSTdgE-O5S1XHkhguimLeExTcNNalyM/s1600/boys1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwk7ZdV1sFeVxG1iqfX5d0vsvemQC9joDotvks-yMSbmgtRNjUpGaLEOuB7XCdLn0GO0GK7RbR1dDMHVw1LZvKS2oBLIv3DJNoroXbOJRFi4apiSTdgE-O5S1XHkhguimLeExTcNNalyM/s400/boys1.jpg" /></a></div>
Boys will be boys. Whether Myanmar or Canadian, white- or brown-skinned, boys will be silly, wild, creative, bored. Teenagers will be aggressive, tender, high, low, smelly. The mutual thrill of befriending someone from another culture (see <a href="http://ricksturningpoint.blogspot.com/2014/02/myanmar-welcome-wagon.html">3 blog posts ago</a>) has quickly and naturally transformed into kids’ friendship, and our living room has transformed into the same loud, smelly-feet clubhouse as our Canadian home.<br><br>
The twins – now somewhat distinguishable as “Nee-Nee” and “Ko-Ko” – usually arrive first, ready to launch into living-room badminton or guitar or whatever’s on hand. Pyo Zin Oo (the short joker and our favourite) comes a bit later and alternates between the Kill-The-Man badminton attacks and quieter artwork with G’s geometry set. The other two boys are a bit more irregular. How these 5 have ended up being the gang is a mystery, but they’re lovely and real. <br><br>
Saturday we rented a “moto-taxi” – motorcycle attached to a cart – into which we stuffed all 7 kids, John Bo and his parents, and me and Sarah. For $5 we motored to 2 ancient temples and the local volcano – a series of burping black mudpools that are slowly creating hills and a surreal lunar landscape on the edge of town. We bought a variety of beautiful mystery fruit and two lava-clay owl ornaments, the twins bought 3 sparrows to be released for good luck, and we still got home in time for the daily soccer (“football”) game at the stadium. <br><br>
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Presents and food are still central. The boys arrive with local sweets or fried mysteries that we usually struggle to enjoy. On them we inflict chocolate chips and sushi and cilantro pesto, with equally baffling results. We celebrate and play with the cultural differences, while mostly enjoying the common elements that make us people and friends first. <br><br>
Sunday the boys walked us down to the river and hired a fishing boat to take us out to the sandy island in the middle of the river. The 7 kids erupted onto the island doing everything you’d expect kids to do – run, swim, sand castles (looking alot like the temples we visited yesterday), scooping tadpoles, racing, digging canals to bring water in from the river, chasing birds. We were 8 dirty, wet, panting bare-chested boys on a beach (and one amused wife) – is there anything more universal? <br><br>
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At first I babysat them, helped the boys integrate and learn how to navigate language and cultural barriers. Now they toodle through town with their gang or hang out here while Sarah and I do what good parents everywhere do – hide in our air-conditioned bedroom, coming out to break up the occasional argument, redirect bored kids, feed them regularly, and arbitrarily send them all out to the street when they need some air. <br><br>
John Bo laughs at me when I flash the neighbour. The twins laugh at G when he farts. Boys will be boys. And friends.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBDXBCWhW5LWqTCnpDj869nx18hf7vsdurdOcDyociON0FcPzRbwJOdJY2-yibAbxSaYPp9LiqJGpKvR8LqFZ6-SQCLV8pS47fJ5HVk1Nw-rB_HrvMCwcw1EGsriHnvX7tXKezh0wg3I/s1600/boys4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBDXBCWhW5LWqTCnpDj869nx18hf7vsdurdOcDyociON0FcPzRbwJOdJY2-yibAbxSaYPp9LiqJGpKvR8LqFZ6-SQCLV8pS47fJ5HVk1Nw-rB_HrvMCwcw1EGsriHnvX7tXKezh0wg3I/s640/boys4.jpg" /></a></div>Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-46078694157269209882014-02-17T03:42:00.000-08:002014-02-17T03:42:37.847-08:00Natural Beauty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieRyBTNEl5hVIbITIM0Y1oH5ss24_uN0pSCpvNy5x31aWNxFBubYx3gl9ZZ6i-IjVqPKqjX1blHVSeKBNroNE62rsuxJfoi7t43zR2tbWjbUL4kWAF8fXVLZtOp6SLa16OEREw2WjHMms/s1600/longyi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieRyBTNEl5hVIbITIM0Y1oH5ss24_uN0pSCpvNy5x31aWNxFBubYx3gl9ZZ6i-IjVqPKqjX1blHVSeKBNroNE62rsuxJfoi7t43zR2tbWjbUL4kWAF8fXVLZtOp6SLa16OEREw2WjHMms/s320/longyi.jpg" /></a></div>I can’t remember the last time I wore pants. Undies, however, may need to come back into use.<br><br>
When I wear my longyi (traditional skirt that pretty much all Myanmar men and women wear), I’m not trying to fit in and be fashionably cool and local. I’m trying to stay cool, and comfortable, and, um, free. I simply love wearing it, and happily my wife loves me in it too. <br><br>
But there’s a fine art to tying the knot that keeps a longyi up. Locals are constantly re-tying it while walking down the street, happily flapping the skirt a few times to refresh the air supply before the ritual double fold, tease-out-2 ends, twist-once and tuck in. Young men playing chinlone pull the bottom edge up and tuck it in at the waist, creating the sexiest diaper look imaginable. Fashions include tight neat knots, Big Bulging Man knots, let a long end flop out free in the wind knots, and clever ways to tuck your money into the knot for market days. I’ve gotten good enough that I can go hours or even a full day without needing to re-tie, nor worry about what I need to wear underneath as a precaution. <br><br>
Until yesterday, that is. Our newly-befriended neighbour came over with a gift of fresh watermelon. At one point during the visit with this young woman and the usual other folk who gather at our house, I gave Sarah a high-five. John Bo’s parents were so amused that they did a two-handed slap (high-ten?) Not to be outdone, I motioned to Sarah to do a jump-in-the-air high ten. <br><br>
As we both gracefully launched into the air and slapped hands, the longyi knot strained against this new vigorous motion. When our feet triumphantly landed on the concrete floor, my longyi triumphantly landed around my knees. I quick-as-lightning pulled it back up, laughing and looking to see just how much had been revealed to our friends. John Bo’s quick commentary settled any doubts about modesty having been spared: <br><br>
“It’s Okay, Mr Rick. Natural beauty.” <br><br>
It takes 5 minute to walk over to the office, but much less time for a good story to travel. By the time I reached there, knowing smiles and giggles met me at the door. My other co-worker, Thein Thein Win, greeted me with a coy question – “So, Mr. Rick, how is the longyi tying going?” <br><br>
“Good until today”, I replied. She smiled, then outright laughed, and said, “I heard. Natural beauty!”
Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-51088283197772172642014-02-04T08:45:00.002-08:002014-02-13T02:59:13.261-08:00Confessions of a Co-operative Missionary<b><i>What am I doing here?</i></b> Every overseas person – whether development worker, missionary, or in my case, “Co-operative Expert” – must ask that in at least one crisis, and hopefully as a reality check on a regular basis.<br><br>
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I’ve been sent to Myanmar by the Canadian Co-operative Association for 3 months to help promote/support the co-operative movement. For better or worse, co-operatives are a central pillar of the government’s Poverty Alleviation strategy. Co-ops are being set up in every village in the country, through which the government is channeling micro-finance loans for farmers and entrepreneurs. This presents a tremendous opportunity to work within the existing framework – on the surface, at least, we are not swimming against the current. <br><br>
<b><i>The first of two major challenges</i></b> is the limited understanding of cooperatives. Co-ops are almost exclusively used for micro-credit loans, without seeing the potential to cooperatively address many other community issues. They tend to be run similarly to other businesses or non-profits. Leadership is often not rotated, and usually not shared by women. Overall (and please note that there are strong exceptions to each of the things I've just listed), members do not feel or exercise a true sense of ownership – the co-op is merely the necessary vessel to receive necessary aid. <br><br>
I deeply believe that the co-operative model, comprehensively applied, would bring great benefit to the member farmers. Our hope is to help create a model co-operative that demonstrates: <br><br>
• Community ownership – people understand the co-op to be owned by them, for the benefit of their own members<br>
• Initiative – members use collective action to creatively address their own challenges, not just the narrow vision of receiving loans or other assistance from external sources<br>
• Democracy – leadership elected openly, rotates, and is responsible to the members<br>
• Gender balance – true women leadership and representation<br>
• Accountability – members understand, exercise, and demand their right/responsibility to be part of the financial and operational oversight of the society<br>
• Open and Voluntary Membership – co-op resists the impulse to close the doors after founding members receive benefit, but rather see the strength and mutual benefits of increasing membership<br><br>
A co-operative embracing these principles will thrive. But how to help the farmers understand this, when there are no co-ops that I have found that model all of these principles? We can and will do endless education workshops, share Canadian examples, search out those few brave souls willing to try something new. But in the end, we have to be honest with ourselves – the initial participation will happen because we are also providing loans or fertilizer or something. <br><br>
<b><i>The second challenge</i></b>, therefore, is how to develop a true co-operative in a place where people do not currently want, trust, or believe in such a movement? Co-ops have been forced down people’s throats for decades. First by a socialist government who made co-ops the way to start a business or acquire farmland. Then a current government –equally well-intentioned, I believe – tying access to credit to co-op membership. <br><br>
Are we well-intentioned NGO’s any different? For two exciting hours last week I met with the co-op department staff envisioning an “integrated farming” co-op with seed saving, organic fertilizers, collective farming/processing/marketing. But in the third hour, we managed to get down to reality, which was that <b>farmers do not want to farm collectively</b>. They will jump through these hoops in order to get whatever assistance our project can offer, but their preference would be to receive the inputs then farm on their own. <br><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RMJOVrSlP1oZ0fYziQCFfMepA4ApZunmbjFOLzecXuMnqfGvx5PzrUyXSexT4uttzOwxxqux4uBeiXeE9sRVRkzdrQueCpWTsV7rAtCg8mNpaU4mhRi9FBspwWejeST269gDHxKFIok/s1600/DSCN0047small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RMJOVrSlP1oZ0fYziQCFfMepA4ApZunmbjFOLzecXuMnqfGvx5PzrUyXSexT4uttzOwxxqux4uBeiXeE9sRVRkzdrQueCpWTsV7rAtCg8mNpaU4mhRi9FBspwWejeST269gDHxKFIok/s400/DSCN0047small.jpg" /></a></div>So I am the missionary offering free meals in exchange for bible lessons, the government mandating co-ops to get loans. “It’s for their own good,” says the government Minister. “They’ll thank us for it later once they’ve seen the light,” says the church minister. “Once they see the true benefits of a true co-op, the movement will spread of its own accord, even without assistance bribes,” says this co-op development preacher. (And I can’t help but add Mary Poppins – “Just a spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down.”) <br><br>
My own <a href="http://www.freerangeconsulting.ca">FreeRange Consulting</a> business is the result of this type of mutually-agreed-upon coercion. I entered a government business-start-up program just to get the financial assistance it offered. They knew that was my reason, and I knew they were hoping to convert me into a businessman along the way. But through this dance I did learn a great deal about how to launch and run a business, and in retrospect I am glad that they forced the training on me. <br><br>
Just like that government business program, I can offer training/vision that will benefit farmers in ways that they can’t fairly be expected to understand or believe before experiencing. I’ve travelled 14.5 time zones from my home precisely because I have a unique perspective and expertise in this area. I can give examples, handouts and fancy power-point presentations, but until they’ve tasted the difference for themselves they deserve to remain skeptical. It is my job – and the reason that the local sponsoring agency has invited me here – to introduce people to new ideas that may or may not take root eventually. <br><br>
<i><b>This story has a happy ending</b></i>, or at least interlude. After visiting several strong but not cutting-edge co-operatives, we finally found an inspiring example. It’s an integrated farm that was started in 1979, the only way these landless farmers could get land from the government. In 1996 the military expropriated ¾ of their land, but the remaining 123 acres are still farmed by 22 member families. The whole project was imposed by the government and almost destroyed by it, and there is still an undercurrent of being forced to exist as a co-op in order to get ongoing aid. Not a promising base. <br><br>
But after 34 years of functioning together as a co-op, watching new generations grow into membership, they’ve grown together. They built a school for the children, and provide scholarships. They’ve launched a fish farm operation together. And most importantly, over 34 years they have naturally formed real co-operative bonds, even if it takes a nosy foreigner to point it out to them: <br><br>
“What happens if a member is sick during planting time?” I ask. <br><br>
“We all go and help them, of course,” is the automatic and somewhat incredulous answer. “Why even ask such a question,” I see them thinking. <br><br>
I press my point home, and in the process remember why I’m here. “Because in a normal place where each farmer only sees to her own farm, coming together to help might not be the automatic answer. THAT is what a co-operative is.” <br><br>
THAT is the seed I’m here to plant, with enough passion that people are inspired or at least curious enough to try. And there’s nothing coercive about presenting an idea and the opportunity to try that idea out if it’s offered with respect and honesty.Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-72526103757373320142014-02-03T21:08:00.000-08:002014-02-03T21:11:41.027-08:00Myanmar Welcome WagonOn day 6 of living in this small Myanmar town, word got out that we are friendly or we’d passed some kind of test. And around here, that means Presents (one of the most commonly known English words in this country, which says a lot about the people).<br><br>
It started innocently enough. A quick walk to check emails at the office in the relative cool of the morning. As I reached the “tea shop” next door, two office workers called me over and made me sit down for <b>tea and some fresh fried bean buns</b>. The young waiter with light brown “thanaka” paint on his cheeks smiled as I ate their local food, and looked just as surprised when it was my co-worker, not me, who pulled out the cash to pay. All I could give was a heartfelt “chezu ten bedai” (thank you) – a phrase I’d be repeating all day long. <br><br>
The young waiter looked equally surprised when I showed up again for <b>lunch</b>, this time my co-worker John Bo insisting on treating since I’d failed to figure out the new pink rice cooker at home. At the same time, Sarah and the boys were wandering the market with an English-studies university student who is volunteering to teach us English, receiving free samples of sweets, digestive crumble and fruits that even our tutor could not translate. <br><br>
Our zero-English house “helper” got into the action by inviting us to go play some <b>games with the local kids</b>. It started out to be a winding back-alley tour to the outdoor pool hall, where we gathered several “youth” (ages 18-30 – they grossly overestimate the age of my grossly-oversized boys) to walk over to the chinone field (a cross between volleyball and soccer). They were all there to oblige us, but in broken language we managed to agree to play later when it wasn’t 100 degrees. <br><br>
At 4:00 some 14-year-old twins arrived at our house (not sure who arranged that) to take us to the soccer stadium, with several motorbikes and bikes and a dozen kids joining the parade. The energetic “football” game ended up with over 20 players and twice as many spectators. When we got tired, our volunteer Engligh tutor rode back to our house to fetch cold water for us. <br><br>
Then at just the right angle of sun, they threw us back on motorbikes to return to the chinlone field, where atleast 50 people had gathered in anticipation of 3 white folk looking foolish at a sport we’re just learning. But it was fun for all, and we took turns playing or watching their highly-skilled game. Some woman handed a <b>chocolate-icecream bar</b> to Z, squeezing his cheek and saying “Beautiful baby” (he endures that alot, but not usually with the ice cream). Someone else brought a bottle of <b>cold drinking water</b>. As we announced finally that it was time to go, we were told we couldn’t because they were getting more food for us (<b>3 more ice cream bars</b>). <br><br>
On the parade home, we stopped at one chinlone player’s house to see his chicken-egg operation, which of course resulted in the present of <b>a dozen eggs, 5 ears of corn, and invitation to a future dinner</b>. We said goodbye and Chezu Ten Badai to everyone at home, only to find another family waiting inside (for how long I don’t know). These folk live across the street and brought their 9- and 6-year-old children to play, which our boys joyfully accepted – it’s been tough always being paired with older kids. We visited with the parents for the customary half-hour, during which time they managed to gift us with some <b>candy, a bottle of milk and a brand new “longi”</b> (traditional skirt - see photo of mine) for Sarah. <br><br>
We escaped upstairs for 10 minute when John Bo announced “your next guests.” Six of the lovely football boys /had come back for a visit, bringing this time <b>two bags of street-food snacks</b> – “Djo” (deepfried cucumber/chickpea/potato) and banana leaves with some sticky rice mystery stuff on it. We countered with grapes and tea for them, brought out the guitar and cameras, and had a good visit. <br><br>
Miraculously we managed to squeeze in a 15-minute meal before the neighbour family returned with their niece, also an English-studies student who wanted to try speaking to foreigners for the first time ever. Exhausted but also impressed with her determination, we tried valliantly to keep a conversation going with this young woman whom Z later described as “dreary – I hope her visits are sparse.” <br><br>
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Oh, at some time in there the credit union manager brought over <b>photos</b> – in print and electronic form – that he had taken from my visit there a few days earlier. And there’s probably more that I’ve forgotten. <br><br>
We struggle to remain open to receiving, not knowing how or what to give back. Or maybe being open is the best way to give back. It’s extremely rare, if ever, that a foreign family with children has lived here, tried a bit to learn the language, shop at the market, make friends, wear longi skirts, etc. They’ve seen us demonstrate that we want to be part of their world, if only for a short while, and this barrage of gifts and visits is their loving way of saying “Welcome.” <br><br>
---<br><br>
PS – I’m writing this in the office, where it’s taken 70 minutes to download 48 of 51 email messages. Even though it’s a hot hot Sunday afternoon, John Bo (left in photo, right is his dad who also lives with us, and the lady is my other coworker Thein Thein)insists on staying with me until I’m done. “You will be lonely and bored” he says. So many ways to give and receive care...Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-2346487419843288192013-12-28T08:31:00.001-08:002013-12-29T07:19:45.166-08:00Taking CareWe brought our children overseas to open their eyes. So they can see different ways and cultures, face poverty and need, learn tolerance and giving, and celebrate the goodness of life. And so they can see their own lives in perspective, maybe learn to separate “I need” from “I want”, put some weight into the good old “There are children starving in China so eat your food” platitudes. <br><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4lnYzCTAgc18-JWRNVQac40_khC9LwckIHPT1JsSSY5QwUrFzFkZm7rGfTDWeavEgiVtC7qokEZNBGet8T_zJGn-qNfjD3VPhzIVlCvmrth8KVBWg84D_2Y40iphnp7WZUCMzyxq44G8/s1600/strollingmandalay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4lnYzCTAgc18-JWRNVQac40_khC9LwckIHPT1JsSSY5QwUrFzFkZm7rGfTDWeavEgiVtC7qokEZNBGet8T_zJGn-qNfjD3VPhzIVlCvmrth8KVBWg84D_2Y40iphnp7WZUCMzyxq44G8/s400/strollingmandalay.jpg" /></a></div>But in learning about poverty, they also learn about privilege. In 2 weeks my boys have become used to having people scramble to open doors for them. To being able to afford whatever they want in the best restaurants, demand taxis, have people iron their underwear and slice their breakfast fruit into works of art. <br><br>
Every time they complain of a lump in the mattress or tired legs after 20-minute walk, i wonder which message they are internalizing – the poverty or the privilege. After one of my useless “think about someone else” diatribes, my boy quietly said “You’re good that that dad – making us feel bad.” <br><br>
Enter my Wise Wonderful Wife to the rescue. Instead of guilt or intellectual exhortations, she whipped up an experiential exercise. Each day one of us is taking the role of loving Caregiver. That person has on extra radar to read the rest of the family’s needs and find creative ways to serve. “I’ll go get the water”, “I’ll take the lumpy bed tonight”, “I’ll hand out the oranges and keep the smallest one for myself.” <br><br>
In this way we are learning from and emulating our gracious Burmese hosts, who genuinely want to give and take care of us. They don’t do it from a place of servitude or caste, but from a place of love. They do it for each other – our taxi driver hit the brakes in the middle of a bridge to give money to a beggar – and especially for us since we are in much more of a place of need as strangers here. <br><br>
By taking a step in their sandals, we are learning about Respect. The self-respect the Burmese people display when they give in such a healthy, loving way. And a healthy dose of respect for ourselves in this curious position of dependency we find ourselves in. We don’t speak the language, can’t read a menu or street signs, don’t recognize half the foods, have trouble buying a bus ticket, and can’t tell the difference between a restaurant, tea shop or bar. <br><br>
So we still easily tell our driver to wait by the car for an hour while we go for ice cream, but it’s not ordering a servant. He’s the professional; we’re the ones who need him because we don’t know how to find places or cross 8 lanes of traffic, and would be terrified to drive these streets. <br><br>
One day at a time, we integrate these learnings into our daily lives by caring for each other. And happily discover that we’re not so bad at it after all – we were already a family who watch out for each other and try to be good to others. We can hopefully come back from this brief exposure to the Burmese Buddhist culture with a bit more humility and greater awareness of how to lovingly serve others. To still want the softest bed, but maybe sometimes find a different comfort in giving that to another person who wants/needs it just as much or even more.Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-51826726781474381812013-12-02T07:51:00.000-08:002013-12-02T07:51:15.670-08:00Myanmar after MidnightArriving in a new country after midnight is like watching children sleep - you learn some about their inner nature when the clutter of the day is stripped away.
Myanmar at 2am is tranquil, clean and classic. The airport is empty and spacious, not the Ghanaian gauntlet of thousands of hands reaching to drag you to their taxi, nor the frantic hands reaching through cracks of Zaire glass hungry for mail. Just a deathly slow immigration officer hunting&pecking his way through your documents without once uttering a word. He takes your photo to remind you that this is still a military regime you're entering into, barely-active remnants of an all-too-recent time when your every move would be watched and recorded and suspected.<br><br>
The taxi driver walks is a foot shorter than me and walks faster than me, polite but strong and not offering to take my bag. The old taped-together white Toyota with low busted seats is familiar, as is the lack of seatbelt, but his driving is not hurried, not honking, not weaving in and out even when there is an occasional other car on the road. This isn't the Egyptian nascar-wannabe terrifying my entry into Cairo; he's a hint of the active but collected, friendly but measured pace I expect will still be here by daylight tomorrow.<br><br>
The road from the airport sports the usual brightly-lit car dealerships - the clientele who can afford to fly are the best target for selling new cars too. Big billboards advertise high-tech products, laundry soap and margarine. Skinny tall cement building each have a gate and a name, like an endless row of commercial city-states, each selling some product on the ground floor and housing multiple generations up above. Then out of nowhere the golden temple rises above all, shining gold with grandiose gates guarded by 100-foot-high lions in all 4 directions. <br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDCPhp6rA9-JKqTEo1yZltt_DHvcggljw0MtwSD7vk0j94gH66r1ILSV5s6PQpQGgec0Y-B6fWpH85lVXmdv5d8ANWxuN2vscheNJr9wnXDC1mg9gQJmYBj4oIAQ3ZGObKs2wHrTt_x00/s1600/Shwedagon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDCPhp6rA9-JKqTEo1yZltt_DHvcggljw0MtwSD7vk0j94gH66r1ILSV5s6PQpQGgec0Y-B6fWpH85lVXmdv5d8ANWxuN2vscheNJr9wnXDC1mg9gQJmYBj4oIAQ3ZGObKs2wHrTt_x00/s400/Shwedagon.jpg" /></a></div>
Unlike New York or Kinshasa, this is a city of 4 million people who do sleep. In a 40-minute drive I see only one roadside snack seller (ground nuts, bananas...), 2 long-legged & short-shorted sex trade workers, one group of young men sitting roadside with a guitar, and one homeless couple sprawled liberally in bright pink on the sidewalk corner. Not a single child the whole drive. Poverty most certainly is rampant in this city and country, but not along the cleaned-up streets that bring tourists and dignitaries past the golden temple and down to the hotel district.<br><br>
At the hotel, no crowds of young men try to force the trunk open to "help" with the luggage. The night staff wake up quickly and cheerfully from the foyer couches and easily remember my reservation. The room is as clean and spacious as the website pictures, the AC noisy but functioning, the wireless internet works, and the streets are free from honking, fighting, laughing, trucking, in fact free from any noise. Only the king-size bed, covered only with a sheet, calls to me to enjoy a legs-stretched-out, horizontal, peaceful sleep after a 20-hour plane odyssey. I'm 13.5 time zones from home, but with just enough touches of the familiar to have a feel for what I'll wake up to - a welcoming, mature, steady and mysterious new place that will be my learning and sharing ground for the next 3 months.Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-18640401056581979792012-10-20T21:22:00.001-07:002012-10-20T22:25:54.728-07:00Life, and death, and life on the farmBaryshnikov is one confused water buffalo. On Tuesday he watched his "brother" SnowStar be taken down by a single shot, then hung up from the strong arm of a big blue tractor to bleed and be skinned and cut apart. He snuggled up to 5 kids and me, pushing his hard head and horns affectionately and powerfully into our small bodies as we dug a big hole to bury SnowStar's inedibles. And he moaned and bleated louder than any time since he was weaned when we all left and he found himself alone in the big pasture for the first time in his entire life.
<br><br>Two days later those bleats were curious and excited as he smelled then saw his new baby brother entering the pasture. Baryshnikov has quickly become used to affectionate full-tongue kissing, constant following and leaning against, and attempts to suckle by this two-week-old buffalo newcomer.
<br><br>We've all been as excited, or more, by this new flow of life on our farm. SnowStar will become months worth of meals for 7 families. 25 chicks were 2-weeks into their journey to the freezer of another couple-dozen families, and the 25 big chickens were supplying 4 families with all the eggnog we can conjure. WildSide Farm felt alive, even with the death of a cow we'd raised from 4-days-old.
<br><br>Then this morning, one blood-thirsty mink reminded us that death is as much a part of the farm as life. One mink, one night, 49 dead chickens. We spent the day in shock, in mourning, in anger at a creature doing what - for some unknown reason - comes as naturally for him as killing a big cow does for us.
<br><br>So it was that I entered our land partner's birthday party with a wheelbarrow full of beheaded carcasses (minks are as vicious as they are deadly efficient). His urban friends from Victoria all helped build a 10-foot funeral pyre with the last of my year's burn pile, reverently placing dead chickens and chicks on higher and higher levels. A bit of gas, straw and a blow-torch later, the huge hot blaze was a beautiful cremation and a Burning-Man-style purging of our sorrow.
<br><br>A big reason we moved to the country was so that our children, as well as us, could understand where food comes from, where life comes from. And where death comes from, how it follows and precedes life. In this week our 8-year-old came home from school to witness the cow slaughter ("His soul will just go back into the herd, so it's OK"), and 5 boys helped with the burial. Eleven children so far have helped bottle-feed a new born buffalo, and console Baryshnikov in his grieving. Seven boys and five little ones helped with the chickens' funeral pyre, watching "their souls going up into the sky and heaven." And in the single most redeeming, beautiful moment of this hard day, we came home from morning soccer to find a note from our 9-year-old neighbour taped to our door (in reference to the one chicken who miraculously survived the carnage):
<br><br><i>
I brang your last chicken to my house becose I thot it was lonly. I hope you donte mind. :)</i>
<br><br>The children get it, and teach it, and just live it naturally. Life, and death, and life again - it's all one. You can't embrace one without embracing the other.Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-58218363907302079542012-09-25T12:00:00.001-07:002012-09-25T12:00:53.878-07:00DemolitionThe longer you’ve been in a tree fort, the harder it is to take down.<br><br>
You put your whole self into building that castle in the sky. Straightened out dad’s bent nails, salvaged planks from the neighbour’s fence, stolen supplies at night from the construction site across the street. You chose just the right tree(s), agonized over triangle vs. rectangle designs, and negotiated with the parents for how high up the rope ladder could go. You pounded and bruised and bent and re-nailed till it all miraculously hung together.<br><br>
Then you stood back and looked at what you’d created. A little off-centre, a few headless nails smashed in sideways, a gap here or there to let some light in. It wasn’t what you dreamed, but it was your creation and it was Real.<br><br>
The first day after finishing a tree fort is the best. You throw the tools in a bucket and convince mom to let you haul up some popcorn and lemonade. You sit inside with your buddies and just glow in the achievement. “This is the BEST fort ever!” You believe is was IT.<br><br>
Then a few more days pass and it’s not so new anymore. The one thing you forgot when designing and building it was what you’d do once you moved in. Turns out that reading magazines by a stolen flashing-orange traffic light isn’t so awesome. You start to notice those cracks, realize it’s a bit too small, wish you’d put in a bigger window. And before you know it, the talk is about the next fort, or the addition.<br><br>
When we’re ten, the new fort planning begins about day 3. When we’re ten, we’re fearless in our unattachment, and it frees us to break-down and re-create ourselves and our world endlessly. Taking down that fort, careful to not splinter wood or lose nails, is every bit as creative and energizing as putting it up, because even during the destruction we are seeing the raw materials of the re-creation.<br><br>
When we Grow Up, we stay in that fort longer. We get used to its creaks and smells, and very good at DIY patch jobs over its faults. If that support beam is cracking, we can just attach a second one alongside to shore it up. We build extra rooms and skylights on our soul and believe it will all hold together.<br><br>
But now and then we need a Re-Do. We need to take that fort down all the way and start over. And if we don’t, life may just do it for us. More often than not we keep trying to patch up that fort until some out-of-our-hands “Act of God” not-covered-by-insurance earthquake shakes us right down to ground zero. Or the foundation wasn't built strong enough for all these additions and it finally just gives way. Either way, we wake up in a pile of rubble knowing it’s time to pick up the hammer again.<br><br>
We need to honour the raw materials as they come down, knowing that they’re the starting place for the new structure. And we need the courage and vision of our ten-year-old selves to believe that this growing pile of rubble is still the foundation for a new castle in the sky. And believe that while much of the good character of the old fort can be preserved, this will be an even better one, this time with a deck on the roof and a secret entrance and maybe, just maybe, a bigger window that lets in a bit more sun.Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-22722254473236983382012-07-12T19:10:00.000-07:002012-07-14T07:57:38.793-07:00Best U-Pick Strawberries<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZdzeDE6HoZ-FHSwiejpwxiZTPgD533o7x5wEKz3nWCjNM5HK6Q01ZomnAhyH5sKCcLzhVy9kEtgubAMNe33Y3t639jxig2DYL-8-qEqfXUlOtTKlpe954X6T69qopWj-XlTMUoPR0CLU/s1600/Strawberry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="213" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZdzeDE6HoZ-FHSwiejpwxiZTPgD533o7x5wEKz3nWCjNM5HK6Q01ZomnAhyH5sKCcLzhVy9kEtgubAMNe33Y3t639jxig2DYL-8-qEqfXUlOtTKlpe954X6T69qopWj-XlTMUoPR0CLU/s320/Strawberry.jpg" /></a></div>
I'm a better man when I pick my own strawberries.
<br><br>A favourite childhood memory is the annual trip way out to the country (Langley, when it was country) to the U-Pick strawberry fields. We'd put on our special old clothes, search around to find some old buckets, and starve ourselves to make room for the feast to come. Once there we'd have eating contests, and one notorious strawberry fight that included squashing juicy berries in each other's blond hair. We'd jump into the off-limits rows to get the larger commercial berries, and mercilessly pick just the biggest berries, leaving the smaller stuff and under/over-ripe berries on the bush or strewn on the ground. Only slightly embarrassed at their "boys-will-be-boys" boys, our parents would pay for the few buckets we managed to actually collect, and we'd be off home for an afternoon of jam-making and freezing.
<br><br>This morning I wake up at 5:30 and wander a full 20 yards back to our three rows of strawberries. I'm wearing the same clothes I'd taken off last night (my closet has three sections: Farmer Ricky, Consultant Ricky, and - the most colourful - Ricky Ricky). I hose down one of the many buckets we use for almost everything and start in on row one. No hopping rows, I work methodically and slowly and peacefully along each plant, knowing I'll be out here until every plant was cared for.
<br><br>I pick every berry that's ready, regardless of size (the small ones are often better anyways). Some look so tantalizingly close to perfect, but I observe a bit of lightness at the tip and leave them, knowing that when I come back in a day or two they'll be even better. The ones that the slugs have taken a chunk out of get picked too - when I go back in to sort, they'll go into the jam pot, while the "perfect" ones will be flash frozen on pizza trays. Not a berry is wasted.
<br><br>I also care for the plants as I go. Rogue weeds are removed. I observe the health of the soil, and rearrange the drip-irrigation tubes. A few full strawberry plants are removed where they've become too dense to allow enough sun in. And an entire planting pot is filled with slugs (it's a bad year for those little friends) to dump into a big garbage can of water at the end. Slugs are much more agile than you'd expect - every minute I have to push back down the ones that have ambitiously crawled up to the lip of the planter looking for freedom.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfMXhaLU-YEjJt7CVM0Jbktr6DOBhDo_plCSWcgQANDAKMvPZ-zj31ZTUS-ewrHw72Cpc4Suifl7UYRxEL7jV7mU5ZhEsZxvliN9S9TpPTeBJ215tVqunH9vqqsF-rOyeDd9cSbpGIIGs/s1600/rick+slugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="213" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfMXhaLU-YEjJt7CVM0Jbktr6DOBhDo_plCSWcgQANDAKMvPZ-zj31ZTUS-ewrHw72Cpc4Suifl7UYRxEL7jV7mU5ZhEsZxvliN9S9TpPTeBJ215tVqunH9vqqsF-rOyeDd9cSbpGIIGs/s320/rick+slugs.jpg" /></a></div>
<br><br>As we'd drive away from our childhood U-Pick adventure, in our haste to gather a year's worth of berries in one morning we'd leave behind a path of destruction that some poor Langley farmer would have to remedy. Here on my own farm I've improved the health of my plants, making space for more berries to grow and ripen.
<br><br>The slow ritual, repeated every few days throughout the season, gives room for contemplation. I remember the woman in Saanich who sold us the starter plants, and how patiently Sarah has been dividing the runners and growing our plot each year. I reminisce about the hundreds of hours we spent with Joe and Nathalie creating these garden beds, and the dreams we had of Someday having enough strawberries and blueberries and other perennials to get us through a full year. Three years later, I'm living that Someday every day.
<br><br>As the sun rises above the treeline, I reverently drown the slugs and carry a full bucket of organic, zero-mile berries back to the kitchen. I realize that I've picked over 500 berries and eaten exactly two. There was no need to gorge on someone else's free berries. These are ours, and eating will happen all year - frozen, jam, syrup - and later today in a fresh pie or shortcake or homemade icecream for my Farmer Wife's birthday.
<br><br>I was blessed to grow up knowing where strawberries come from, but never really appreciating or respecting where they come from. Now that I'm even more blessed to know who they come from and how they grow, I don't pillage anymore. I'm part of a symbiotic, give-and-take relationship with my strawberry plants, and the berries taste that much sweeter from the exchange.Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-83956079177146166732012-07-01T21:03:00.001-07:002012-07-01T21:04:25.409-07:00Oh (sigh) Canada<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We tried to be patriotic at dinnertime, listing things we like about Canada. A kids kazoo band buzzing out "Oh Canada" at The Hub should inspire optimism in our big little country, right? So why do I feel like the core things I'm proud of about Canada are slowly (or not so slowly) being eroded away?
<br><br>Canada cares for the environment.
<br>Canada is a Peace-loving, Peace-promoting nation.
<br>Canada believes in reformation, not just incarceration.
<br>Canada is deeply committed to free universal health care.
<br>Canada has a great public education system.
<br>Canada contributes significantly and effectively to international development.
<br>Canada doesn't have the huge disparity between rich and poor.
<br>Canada promotes and honours its cultural identity.
<br>Canadians are willing to sacrifice personal wealth and comfort to help others.
<br>Canada is a model of democracy.
<br><br>Regardless of whether Harper is the architect or just the symbol, every one of those statements is becoming less true. We are a nation going backwards, reneging on our commitments and our beliefs and our values, losing what has truly made us special and unique and respected and valued in the world. We are increasingly ruled by fear instead of hope, self-interest instead of love, growth instead of prosperity.
<br><br>I'm still proud to be Canadian. Proud of our history, proud of our identity, awed by our potential. I just wish I could feel hopeful and proud of the direction we're going.Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-39693033414892261252012-06-23T03:42:00.000-07:002012-06-23T03:44:37.630-07:00Co-operatives - Cradle-to-Grave Sustainable DevelopmentMy international world has always been divided into two streams: aid and development. Aid looks like emergency shelters and bags of rice and bottled water, the stuff of helping people immediately after a disaster. Development is what follows, the longer-term hand-back-up to livelihood and stability. I first fell in love with Oxfam because of their ability to do both – to be there before the disaster, mobilize those networks immediately after, then stick around for the long haul.
<br><br>Now suddenly I’m facing a delightful third way, that of multi-sector co-operatives. Here in Sri Lanka I’m working with SANASA, the biggest co-operative organization in the country. They are engaged in micro-credit and savings, insurance, housing, training… they even have a travel agency for short get-aways, and a funeral co-op for that final destination. If they have a birthing co-op, which wouldn’t surprise me, they’re literally a cradle-to-grave organization.
<br><br>The goal of international development, I’d always understood, is to work yourself out of a job. To extend that hand-up of solidarity only until the partner is back on their feet again and able to do it for themselves. Every good development project should have a built-in exit strategy that represents success.
<br><br>With SANASA, I’m with a member-owned, member-operated co-op that has no intention of going away. Their goal is to provide a lifetime of services for/with their members. I’m now faced with the challenge of building in strategies to increase involvement, not end it.
<br><br>For example, the program I’m with is helping post-tsunami victims start up new businesses. In traditional development, our goal would be to provide training, credit and support until the family has a stable and sufficient income to carry on by themselves. With the co-op, the goal is to continue to support the new entrepreneur to grow their business, start employing other members, and have a bigger impact on the local and national economy. That member will also hopefully be a repeat user of the co-op’s loan program, take out co-op insurance, grow their savings in the co-op’s credit union, build a house with the co-op’s construction company, and eventually be embalmed on the co-op’s cold hard slab table with a drainage hole leading down to a trench in the cement floor leading to a hole going somewhere I don’t want to know (but that’s a different story). All of this increased business strengthens not only the individual, but also the co-op. Everyone wins.
<br><br>SANASA may have received some valuable Canadian funding and technical assistance (including me, hopefully valuable), but it is 100% owned and operated by its members –the very people benefitting from all the projects and work. That, my friends, is sustainable development.Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-22323876876898416852012-06-21T18:16:00.000-07:002012-06-21T18:17:25.370-07:00Apologies to CricketInspired by Jason (George from Seignfeld) Alexander’s eloquent and deep apology to the world about his <a href="http://www.twitlonger.com/show/hm187q">gay cricket jokes</a>, I would also like to offer my heartfelt apologies to the world of Cricket. It not only is a real sport, it’s a rather manly one, and surprisingly interesting.
<br><br>Like the Salvation Army in Major Barbara or trying bbq turkey tails in Ghana, it started out as a lark. I’m here in this former British colony where one of the best legacies has been one of the best cricket teams in the world. So one night at the hotel I sit with Somasiri and let him enthusiastically explain the game, pretending to care more than in a cultural-museum kind of way. But by the end of 4 wickets I’m not only getting it, but am genuinely cheering for the boys in blue (and yellow, looking much more Swedish than British).
<br><br><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZt8ch1CEo1uPyqyBTDKZ81S9W4euSntvddESV3plSLNuD-X2ZwGUIvtewJTgcve583rrcDKnSGQwk6Nw4Utq6KsbVIrg2ezvojPrIQkC70cwm0AK79bm5H3A2s7iXcmDlpxF6mXb-_TY/s1600/cricket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="329" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZt8ch1CEo1uPyqyBTDKZ81S9W4euSntvddESV3plSLNuD-X2ZwGUIvtewJTgcve583rrcDKnSGQwk6Nw4Utq6KsbVIrg2ezvojPrIQkC70cwm0AK79bm5H3A2s7iXcmDlpxF6mXb-_TY/s400/cricket.jpg" /></a>
Just like the mighty last-second alley-oop in an NCAA championship that taught me to appreciate basketball, it took just one amazing fielding play to win me over. The 130km ball was smashed even faster from the canoe-paddle of the Pakistani batsman, far out into left field. Our outfielder read it perfectly, sprinted halfway across the world and dove full out to catch it inches from the ground. The nation rose as one and roared in unison.
<br><br>Can I add that he caught it bare-handed? How padded are baseball gloves? How much padding does our macho North American hockey or football player hide behind?
<br><br>Throughout the month we’ve caught more of this two-month visit by Pakistan, watching multiple-matches by carefully choosing restaurants and roadside snack bars with the game on TV. I’ve seen way more diving, close plays, quick reactions and drama than in any baseball game. And action happens at every pitch (“bowl”). The bowler is changed out every 6 or 12 bowls, so there’s plenty of variety. And the bewildering (at first) talk about the number of wickets and overs and strike rates would make any TV announcer deliriously happy (isn’t that the main reason soccer isn’t popular on American TV – the lack of stats?)
<br><br>The culmination was going to the big stadium for one of the international matches. We bought the cheap zone tickets from a scalper, putting us in festival seating on cement benches packed with men (mostly) singing, dancing, raising flags, fighting, cheering – nothing unusual there except the dancing. After the first two hours we were treated to 70 minutes of watching the tarps quickly pulled out to protect the turf from the rains, then pulled off again while a cricket zamboni (a steam roller with giant sponges) did its rounds. I was ready to leave, but over the next 2 hours watched as the rhythm changed, two batters got into a groove, different tactics employed by each team at various phases of the match. By watching all of Sri Lanka’s 3,000 pitches (60 overs) I came to a much deeper understanding of the nature of the sport. Then back on the hotel I watched much of Pakistan’s turn and their historic collapse. True drama.
<br><br>Of the many lessons and wonders I’ve experienced in Sri Lanka, perhaps the most surprising is an appreciation of cricket as a real sport – and a really interesting one at that.Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-35399176207811906922012-06-15T21:39:00.001-07:002012-06-16T18:33:41.553-07:00Sri Lanka's Slow and Rich Roads<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk1mrXlZz9TybeRkiT-LB_hOCB3QCimje3VaKXGSLrKnMqGBRWb_rOuBCzEb__Lh05aO1wP9S7oF2kXTXQNYqFSYtll_D6UehnXXBf_lNezgOSdTom23zlyfBjpghv2mb53LmaESipKL0/s1600/kandy+temple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="238" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk1mrXlZz9TybeRkiT-LB_hOCB3QCimje3VaKXGSLrKnMqGBRWb_rOuBCzEb__Lh05aO1wP9S7oF2kXTXQNYqFSYtll_D6UehnXXBf_lNezgOSdTom23zlyfBjpghv2mb53LmaESipKL0/s400/kandy+temple.jpg" /></a>
Why did a 115 km trip from Kandy to Colombo take 8 hours?
<br><br>First stop was the Temple of the Tooth Relic - a sacred place where Buddha's tooth is kept safe. The tooth miraculously survived the burning of his body, escaped destruction by one King's hammer by turning into light and becoming a star for a while, and was smuggled into Sri Lanka hidden in the hair of a young woman. In not-too-long-ago times it was a symbol of power - whoever held the tooth was ruler of the country. The tooth has been moved to various new temples built in its honour and to protect it from invaders who recognize its power.
<br><br>For lunch we randomly chose one of the hundreds of buffets lining the entire route. In addition to the usual rice (red and white), curry dahl, chicken curry, "ladyfinger" veggies and papadum, this place also sported pumpkin, chinese fried rice, and chinese veggies. All you can eat with your fingers for $2.
<br><br>Next stop was a co-op store that our country director Somasiri helped start during his last job with Oxfam. Various small-scale producers have come together to open this roadside store to collectively market their goods - one of many ideas we are considering with my current project. I was able to support them and hopefully please my wife by purchasing $8 worth of: caraway seed, black pepper, cumin seed, mustard seed, heritage red rice, dried jackfruit, palm syrup (for the boys' pancakes.)
<br><br>By now we'd run out of money, due to having to pay cash for our fancy hotel last night. Instead of the $156/night, we were given the local $50 rate as long as Somasiri officially paid as our "travel agent." Which meant cash. So we stopped in a bigger town for the first of several unsuccessful attempts to use my international debit card. Somasiri also couldn't access his account, so our super-driver Nishantha managed to withdraw enough to bankroll us the final 80 km, which included:
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The Cashew Capital of Sri Lanka - a place where about 50 small stands and shops line both sides of the road selling roasted cashews - plain, salted and spicy. Ironicaly, this isn't even a cashew-growing region - they're brought in from the north - but since Somasiri was a boy they've even learned in school that this is the place to buy cashews. Yes Sarah, at $15/kg, there are some coming home.
<br><br>Another 10 km brought us to the pineapple-growing and selling region, with prices ranging from 10 cents for a fist-sized pineapple to $1.20 for a feed-the-family variety. Across the street we bought three humungous avocado for 75 cents. I'll take these stands over a McDonald's drive-through for any road trip.
<br><br>I finally found single razor blades at a little shop, but caused confusion by trying to buy a whole package. They only sell them individually - most people buy just enough razors, soap, salt, etc to get them through the next shave or meal or wash. Buying in bulk is either a luxury they can't afford or just a consumption pattern they haven't adopted. So we had to open the little box and count them out (5, if you're curious), then multiply the unit price. Nearby, Nishantha also found a place for me to buy a "Rice-Hopper" press so I can make my own little rice-pasta pucks like I've been enjoying each breakfast time.
<br><br>The final - or perhaps first - reason for the long trip is the road. Not the condition - Sri Lankan roads are incredibly well-maintained, smooth, painted. But this second-busiest highway in the country is still 2-lane with a 2-foot shoulder on each side. Shared by (in reverse pecking order) sleeping dogs, pedestrians, 3-wheeled rickshaws, local busses, trucks, express busses, cars, and fancy SUV's like ours. A good average speed for a skilled SUV driver is 40 km/hour. There's never an open road to hit the 70/km speed limit; instead, an endless parade of slower vehicles to successively pass. Passing is accomplished when the traffic coming the other way is single-or double-file only, and not any big fat busses. Then we pull out into right over the centre-line, the vehicle we're passing pulls over a bit, the oncoming traffic all squeezes over, and we go straight down the middle, usually cutting back in just before an oncoming vehicle also pulls in from his own passing. Just like I observed in Chennai, everybody does their part, acknowledges their place in the pecking order and exactly what they have to do to allow this system of continual near-accidents to flow smoothly.
<br><br>Not to be outdone by the rural highway's adventures and attractions, Colombo showed its true big-city colours by throwing Rush Hour in our path. The first afternoon rush hour starts at 1:00, when every child in the city (it seems) is picked up by his/her parent who wait in their cars 3-abreast, blocking as much of the streets as possible. Just as this eases up, the usual end-of-work rush hour kicks in. So our pain-staking 40 km/hour now seems like a luxury as we sit and crawl our way to a few more unyielding bank machines then finally back to the welcome arms of our beautiful guest house.
<br><br>So, that's the report on traffic, shopping, history, religion and much more that one can learn about Sri Lanka on a simple 115 km drive from the Buddhist capital in the hills to the modern capital metropolis by the sea.
<br><br><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_-ERekp_VCbDAcrA6tqUYkA0qkGxxCbqWhyKJgbQW8PEmCxwm7XSq9rKI7EhbMPkdXVvsENFAf2qwuJ0-dC_-FIBC-YZbdNv03GbkaLb0kz1Vn0vhC0GytxYRu7IM0wQt0L2wBzVO14/s1600/DSC_0152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_-ERekp_VCbDAcrA6tqUYkA0qkGxxCbqWhyKJgbQW8PEmCxwm7XSq9rKI7EhbMPkdXVvsENFAf2qwuJ0-dC_-FIBC-YZbdNv03GbkaLb0kz1Vn0vhC0GytxYRu7IM0wQt0L2wBzVO14/s400/DSC_0152.JPG" /></a>Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-26707063827419101812012-06-07T09:48:00.000-07:002012-06-07T09:49:03.737-07:00Working WeekendA weekend in the coastal town of Galle, Sri Lanka, is a tourist paradise. Throughout the backpackers circuit in Africa and Europe, this place is legendary for beautiful topless Swedes enjoying low-priced alcohol and beautiful beaches. Endless variety of guest houses and restaurants catering to the evidently huge international crowd who come to enjoy this gem of coastline and culture. How to enjoy a weekend with no official work duties?
<br><br>Work, of course. First of all, it's Bloody Hot season, meaning that Swedes are few and far between. If I really need to see topless Swedes I've got internet; work offers the chance to see more of the real Sri Lanka that could never be captured online. Last weekend, "real" took several forms.
<br><br>First, a 40-minute drive down the coast with our amazing (and SAFE) driver Nishanka, national director Somasiri and local trainer Radeeka pointing out sites and history - free guided tour in an air-conditioned SUV. Every bit as stunning and varied as the California coast. Buildings new and restored after the tsunami, other ominous vacant lots and ruins a reminder of the devastation.
<br><br><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4cDk1iPZuLRxDqXCk_dEExiIoXvdA7DnrnN-5H_lj89RF_HOOnO7h8G04uTtAB8UdhBJ2AGyR33-JwQRwzvvb-j8PwtOXiZnwkBixp2vA4zRIbwdWg8ApXOb5CJF-UT_E9CZ3rc5y9tI/s1600/073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4cDk1iPZuLRxDqXCk_dEExiIoXvdA7DnrnN-5H_lj89RF_HOOnO7h8G04uTtAB8UdhBJ2AGyR33-JwQRwzvvb-j8PwtOXiZnwkBixp2vA4zRIbwdWg8ApXOb5CJF-UT_E9CZ3rc5y9tI/s320/073.JPG" /></a>
Stopped for breakfast at a beachside set of grass-thatched huts, but they were out of food. Next door was a very fancy hotel-type place completely empty except for a Sri Lankan breakfast buffet that looked suspiciously like the dinner buffet - white rice, red rice, dahl, curried chicken, potatoes in a white curry sauce. Luckily I'm loving the food here and, with one exception where I could only finish 1/4 of a plate, not finding it too spicy. I sometimes break a sweat or turn red and get tingly lips like everyone else, but that's just part of the dining experience.
<br><br>Arrived at the home of Nelka, a 36-year-old mother of 5 (youngest daughter pictured here) who started a sewing business through the program I'm here to evaluate. We had the honour of sitting for 3 hours with this woman and her whole family learning intimate details about their finances, local business environment, the fishing industry (her husband drives a fishing boat and is gone for a month at a time - luckily was home today), upcoming wedding of her daughter, power balance between husband and wife, how much of her jewelry is currently in hawk at the pawn shop, and many more details of her life that usually take years of relationship-building to learn of our Canadian friends, if ever. Think about it - even though I'm pretty darn open about most things verbally and through my blog, how many of you know how much I earn, what my debt load is, how Sarah and I resolve conflict, or how my father died?
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On the way back we detoured to a lighthouse that turned out to be the tallest in the country. The lighthouse keeper came out of his residence and talked for 20 minutes about his history as a lighthouse keeper (since 1981), what his retirement would be like, his previous postings (including one lighthouse at sea where he'd be there for 45 days at a time), how often he sees his family a few hours up the coast. Yet another deep glimpse into the real life of a real person, courtesy of the Canadian journalist travelling with us.
<br><br>David is one of those special souls who is so genuinely interested in and respectful of people's stories that they naturally want to share. He gets away with deeply personal questions that most of us shy away from asking, not wanting to intrude. But with this journalist, everyone has a story worth sharing, and every detail is worth knowing. "How many lightbulbs, and what wattage?" "How many stairs to the top (243) and how often do you go up?" What a true gift, and sadly a rare one. I have many friends with truly open souls who make you feel safe to share - I'm married to one - but this unabashed forwardness that turns every random encounter into a connection is rare. He takes 10 minutes longer to leave any place than the rest of us - leaving the lighthouse he ended up befriending two of the very muscular workers renovating the outside of the lighthouse, then a woman selling boiled chickpeas, then...
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Next stop - Sweat Shops. A tax-free Free Trade Zone - a high-security fenced compound that houses many different buildings where all our cheap clothing and products are made. Somasiri managed to talk them into letting us drive through, with one of their trucks "escorting" us. They even let me stop and take a few photos, then their guard got into our car so he could give us an animated guided tour, explaining what was made in each building, from airplane parts to undergarments. He showed us the bus stop where dozens of busses waited for the shift to end, the daycare for working parents, the cafeteria, the beautiful tropical tree-lined streets, the music blasting out of the garment factory. Every building had numerous fans and ventilation systems, looked very clean, no more crowded than a cubicle-filled Canadian office, lots of emergency doors. From the outside, it verified what my Sri Lankan friends and the guide had told me, that working conditions have improved greatly.
<br><br>We stopped at a makeshift shelter outside one factory, where workers were handing out free juice and cookies for <a href="http://ricksturningpoint.blogspot.com/2012/06/poson-poya.html">Poson Poya</a>. This gave us a chance to talk to some factory workers, who all looked genuinely happy, obviously healthy (and no, I don't believe they were hand-picked to be good PR faces, especially since tours are not part of what happens here) and adults. They laughed when I told them that I'd understood sweat shops to be dangerous, miserable, human-rights-abusing pits of despair (not sure how that got translated). They're still not paid a living wage (7am-5pm plus a mandatory Saturday "overtime day" for 18,000 Rupees - $150 - a month) and I still think it's immoral for these international companies to not pay taxes to help support the country they're in, but overall it seems to be much better than the Mexican maquilladores where activists are (or atleast were) beaten and child labourers are virtual slaves making our Levis jeans.
<br><br><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBM-Xzr9NFCGMRkOQnOdGlWAbcHzMjCVC7EIBPggHE0j7-X-i0tta67xWXSL59U4G7NID0QdjGz-4nSCoW1vjTIuhb7Um9iOKOTrLRLwn2yTIsBZQnvkDlslqDr_BrbxiAvqgvL14mQVU/s1600/067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBM-Xzr9NFCGMRkOQnOdGlWAbcHzMjCVC7EIBPggHE0j7-X-i0tta67xWXSL59U4G7NID0QdjGz-4nSCoW1vjTIuhb7Um9iOKOTrLRLwn2yTIsBZQnvkDlslqDr_BrbxiAvqgvL14mQVU/s400/067.JPG" /></a>
Quick drive through the backpackers/surfers paradise of Unawatuna Beach, then on to the historic Dutch Galle-Fort, an entire fortified city declared by UNESCO as a world heritage site. We walked the cobblestone streets lined tight with old houses, churches, shops and offices, and strolled the ramparts of walls built to repel British and Portugese colonialists from the sea and Sri Lankans from the land. What a microcosmic world they chose to live in, surrounded by fear and hate on all sides, just for the privilege of pillaging this rich beautiful land and people.
<br><br>Back to the sprawling elegant and hauntingly empty (we are the only guests, outnumbered by the staff) beachfront hotel for a quick swim, then out to the opening night of a new Indian restaurant. Just-cool-enough breeze off the water, powerful music blasted by the DJ in the hut outside, kids enjoying the indoor playground of this family-friendly restaurant, and the best dahl and mango lassi of the trip. Nishanka drove us back to the hotel tired, well-fed, and one full day fuller of beautiful, real Sri Lanka.
<br><br><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdde_E2uzlCsJjwapup6nIpEBKd4g9WawhzFIWUrnIDhINJolmFQ2GpqWyXlR8hB6bDIdjWGTx3eZGnEUocqkZP0CxmhiZUXiHi7m0AIcLkswNiD0w_xkeZKO6uU_HtrPcJYzFlcYP9-Q/s1600/081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdde_E2uzlCsJjwapup6nIpEBKd4g9WawhzFIWUrnIDhINJolmFQ2GpqWyXlR8hB6bDIdjWGTx3eZGnEUocqkZP0CxmhiZUXiHi7m0AIcLkswNiD0w_xkeZKO6uU_HtrPcJYzFlcYP9-Q/s400/081.JPG" /></a>Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-67269665757701244652012-06-05T09:11:00.000-07:002012-06-07T09:50:08.710-07:00Poson Poya<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4UgnymiyEmNcRM6XLnCJqpgqOH7xDuIx3g3l7ojOO5M-INkVCdmkNUDkxB3UYQGzdWaa-Bhi9Vyt3tClkhms5umiR6c_tBImpSkLcZ8YNXhMTibP3jcitAaduLPszQFL58b4aoKOJbqU/s1600/064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4UgnymiyEmNcRM6XLnCJqpgqOH7xDuIx3g3l7ojOO5M-INkVCdmkNUDkxB3UYQGzdWaa-Bhi9Vyt3tClkhms5umiR6c_tBImpSkLcZ8YNXhMTibP3jcitAaduLPszQFL58b4aoKOJbqU/s400/064.JPG" /></a>
You gotta love a country where every full moon is a national holiday. On this "Poya Day", no meat or alcohol can be sold, everyone (every Buddhist, that is, which is about 70% of the population) goes to the temples to worship, the streets are empty and all shops are closed (except the gem store by my hotel which stayed open for the tourists.)
<br><br>Better yet, June is "Poson Poya", a special day commemorating the arrival of Buddhism in Sri Lanka a couple thousand years ago. All over the country, people set up temporary lean-to's ("Dansala" - literally "a place to give alms") and give away free food and drink to anyone passing by. As we drove under the bright moon toward the temple, we slowed down at every dansala and people reached into to give us pineapple juice, cookies, ice cream cones, tea and iced coffee. We could have stood in longer lines to get a full rice and curry dinner. There was a genuine Joy of giving at each dansala, people just excited by the chance for unadulterated Sharing and connecting. We often had 2 cones thrust upon us, and big cheers from all around as we accepted them. Like Halloween back when we all trusted each other and just played silly together, except this is for adults and with a spiritual strength behind it.
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We felt free and welcomed at the huge temple our friend brought us to. Like all temples it had three main areas of worship: the round white pagoda (in some of which are ashes or remains of the Buddha or others), the Bodhi tree (under which Buddha was enlightened), and the inside temple. Incense and oil lamps burned everywhere, flowers were laid on any altar or statue people could reach, and people meditated, prayed, bowed, wandered, talked, sat, whatever moved them to worship or experience in a way meaningful to them. There is much more worshipful devotion to symbols and the Buddha than I'm used to as a Quaker, but I also witnessed and had explained to me that each person finds their own way to experience and express their faith - bowing to the statue and lighting incense are just some of the more visible (and beautiful to watch) ways. Buddhism is a philosophy, my friend explained, not a religion (a point much debated when you google that question).
<br><br>To complete the sacred carnival melange, we crossed the street to join a long line-up in a field, paying 40 cents to enter a large round barn structure not knowing what mystery it held. Turns out it was a huge carousel-like moving diarama of merchants moving around a circle with their oxcarts, while a man told the historical tale over the microphone. It was tacky and huge and beautiful and mesmorizing, made me feel like Almanzo or Obidiah at the old-fashioned country fair. The picture below doesn't even begin to capture how absurdly perfect an ending it was to a perfect holy day. Happy Poya, friends.
<br><br><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscoyFFMY3u-l-KtGMUSv_Po6pIw4IgmZrjGlCodg2uRZG6J4Vb_bJWVdU8Wwwdeiqpk1fTR33bt-kNWB_754qQXdCUrYRRddDCSKnnuUEcD60rAT8lJxwwPdYNvLfw2x6ZxtLW6PUqcc/s1600/100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscoyFFMY3u-l-KtGMUSv_Po6pIw4IgmZrjGlCodg2uRZG6J4Vb_bJWVdU8Wwwdeiqpk1fTR33bt-kNWB_754qQXdCUrYRRddDCSKnnuUEcD60rAT8lJxwwPdYNvLfw2x6ZxtLW6PUqcc/s400/100.JPG" /></a>Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-24388951104165740252012-06-03T20:16:00.000-07:002012-06-03T22:11:13.541-07:00Business Class<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0wnXD7XWPnuakm6Lc1FZOWr1HJLiNZd5Ar8iY3i3QVGxgO2iCkX50Lf-xoJt4h_Hg_eLfFL7JACvV9IT_t9-cCmCy5CIcjyXXf87La7jsHA_b-pRwbUUipgkwZYE_zA6cLfPjfbW-gDY/s1600/DSC00814.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0wnXD7XWPnuakm6Lc1FZOWr1HJLiNZd5Ar8iY3i3QVGxgO2iCkX50Lf-xoJt4h_Hg_eLfFL7JACvV9IT_t9-cCmCy5CIcjyXXf87La7jsHA_b-pRwbUUipgkwZYE_zA6cLfPjfbW-gDY/s400/DSC00814.JPG" /></a>Spoiled white boy, i'm becomin'. After a week of real backpacking in India - local trains, street food, $10 rooms - it's businessman Sri Lanka all the way. $100 AC rooms with a pool and very stiff white sheets and very polite staff holding doors open. Per diem higher than the highest restaurant. Dress shoes and black socks. "The driver will pick you up at 8."
<br><br>I almost couldn't sleep my first night in the Global Towers hotel. I told myself it was just so Not Me. I can carry my own bag, thank you, and probably even figure out how to open the curtains. I don't need a 14-dollar 28-dish Indian buffet in a huge plush dining room. This place is for rich travelling businessmen and spoiled tourists and Sri Lankans sneaking out on their families for a forbidden weekend. Not me. I want the "Real Sri Lanka."
<br><br>But then I look in the mirror and see a middle-aged businessman. Worse - a Consultant. He's sporting a greying beard and slightly wrinkled dress slacks, and he's lamenting repeatedly about the wi-fi not working in his room overlooking the Indian Ocean. It'll take him some laps around the pool and maybe a 90-minute Ayurvedic massage to shake off that indignation, by which time that buffet sounds alot better than wandering the streets for an hour looking for authentic street food. And he's just tired enough from a day that started at 5am on an Indian train that a queen-sized bed in an air-conditioned room might be justified after all.
<br><br>So I relax and enjoy this privileged and lovely luxury. But after wiping the corners of my mouth with white linen, I still hit the streets in my Keen sandals. 4 hours of finding myself in this new place, snacking, browzing, learning how to cross traffic and how much eye contact to make in the streets. Dipping into a cool cinema for a bad movie (Avengers) with a hot dog and Fanta is a welcome break, but the day is still me and Sri Lanka full on. The cinema's full of Sri Lankans, the hotel is primarily Sri Lankans, just because they're wearing polished shoes doesn't make them inauthentic. And just because I'm wearing shoes doesn't mean my feet aren't on the street.
<br><br>Hippy backpacker Rick would say I'm rationalizing and selling out. 45-year-old development consultant Rick is cutting himself some slack, enjoying the best of, well, not of both worlds, just of this slice of this world. This fabulous, exotic, welcoming Sri Lanka that offers comfort and adventure, hot clammy afternoons and cool evening dips, unnameable street lunch and unbeatable dinner buffets. It's all part of the experience, all part of this nation, and it's all part of me.
<br><br><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGOshHdpfj8IzSofFB0P9hF7SzZpk-7BsQzMofMV4ndDv8CT41PmW-DRt4ikslHRb_m9egvkoXFZK20E-zXt4XMSbZSM7bEfJLU28LHHJvCbDgce4MpzGry9UweyQsCEdjDgbS4kGmaGc/s1600/Pink+elephant.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGOshHdpfj8IzSofFB0P9hF7SzZpk-7BsQzMofMV4ndDv8CT41PmW-DRt4ikslHRb_m9egvkoXFZK20E-zXt4XMSbZSM7bEfJLU28LHHJvCbDgce4MpzGry9UweyQsCEdjDgbS4kGmaGc/s400/Pink+elephant.JPG" /></a> Going back to that list of typical tourist things I've done, I was going to open today's post by listing a few more that I did expect to be called on:
<br><br>5. Talking about India like it's one place. I used to alternately be annoyed or laugh when people talk about "Africa", like Mandela's the president of the whole continent and they all speak one language. The I arrive in a huge and hugely populated subcontinent with hundreds of languages, cultures, climates, etc, and I'm so ignorant that I just assumed it was Hindi I was hearing spoken around me - turns out it was mostly Tamil. So even if anything I've observed is anywhere close to a truth, it's likely limited to the 300km slice of the South Tamil-Nadu province I chanced to visit, or just to Chennai, or just to the street I happened to stroll down after breakfast.
<br><br>6. Confusing rural and urban. A reader wisely pointed out that, when lauding the relaxed reaction I experienced from Indians, I was comparing urban India with rural Zaire. "The urban experience (though with differences as you've observed) is a common one now, around the world, and those of us who live (or have lived) in cities can connect fairly easily - as I guess people with similar lifestyles have always been able to do."
<br><br>7. Making sweeping generalizations. I'm glad y'all understand that I'm sharing first impressions, trying to make some sense of the foreignness of this all, not pretending to have anything more than a superficial snapshot of the true depth of a nation. I spent 7 years in Africa, and each year thought "Now I get it!" Then the next year would pass and I'd look back and think, "What was I thinking?!" I really shouldn't say anything after one week, but if we waited until we knew everything we'd never say anything - the best we can share is what we have at any moment, and a willingness to embrace a different understanding later (reason number 824 that I'd make an unsuccessful politician).Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-71665537700118746502012-05-26T17:57:00.000-07:002012-05-26T18:41:02.935-07:00Typical Tourist in IndiaFor all my blog bragging (blagging?) about being a seasoned traveller, I still made lotsa of the same silly mistakes as anyone, took the same photos, went on the same tours. There's just some mandatory activities and reactions and feelings that trump any world traveller ego.
<br><br>1. I got conned at a temple. A holy-looking man in a delicious orange robe silently but insistently motioned me to follow him, as if this was the official protocol. He took me down some passageway, pointed to a big sign saying foreigners have to pay 1,000 rupees, then to a little interior shrine where his fellow con artist did some prayer for me and my family and put the smudge on my forehead. Then demanded an offering. When I coughed up 200, thinking that was better than 1,000, they smiled and put it at Krisna's feet. Then asked for an offering for the next God beside him (there were 3). I said they could share. Then as the tout continued to guide me around the temple and force me to take photos, he asked for a personal gift, so I gave him 100. The whole rest of the time he asked for another 100 to match my earlier donation. It was just so annoying, but he kept being just confusing enough and sacred enough that I was off balance. Then back at the beginning he told me my bus has already started to load and shooed me off, then disappeared. I never did give him more, so the whole thing only cost me $5, but also robbed me of the Peace of mind exploring the ancient temple, and of course wounded my traveller's ego.
<br><br>2. I stepped in shit. Only once, not every minute like I'd been led to believe. A nice man on the bus pointed it out in time for me to go wipe it off on some rocks and water it down before the bus left. Yuck.
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<br><br>3. I got hit while walking. Swerved just a little to avoid something, and a bicycle hit me from behind. He bounced off me and into an oncoming motorcycle. No-one was hurt, and he re-aligned his handlebars quickly while I apologized then moved along (instinct and training to not hang around an accident scene for fear of blame, extortion, jail - in Africa, we were trained that even if we killed someone with our car, to keep driving to the nearest police station and ask to be locked up for our own protection.) Yes he was cycling the wrong way on a one-way street, but it was still my fault for stepping out of line.
<br><br>Walking here is a bit of skill but a lot of faith. There are so many people and obstacles and directions and modes of transport (foot, bike, motorbike, car, bus) on the narrow roads that everyone has to rely on the predictability of everyone else. If I want to cross the road I have to do it confidently so that everyone knows what I'm doing, then they can adjust accordingly. If I start to hesitate and dodge, no-one knows how to react, and accidents happen. It's almost the opposite of Canada, where the guiding safety standards are clear rules, external signals, and a cultural expectation of consideration and ceding to others. In India, safety is maintained by each person doing what he needs to do deliberately and clearly, and letting the rest of humanity absorb around him.
<br><br>It's like a swarm of ants. An ant with a piece of grass pulls it into a busy highway of ants and they all just swarm around and continue together. Or like a small stream joining a river, it all just merges. This whole big society feels somewhat like that. It's just too big and crowded and busy for everyone to be over-concerned with everyone else - consideration here is being smooth and seamless in the flow of the society.
<br><br>Sometimes that theory works better than others, in my Western perspective. On the train yesterday several people had to sit cross-legged on the floor. Several times people walking through the isle, carefully stepping between them all, got their back foot caught between two particular men sitting a bit closer together than others. Each time, the men just sat there, not moving their legs at all for the person to get unstuck. It happened more than once and each time they continued to sit oblivious and unmoving felt more like the usual negative connotation of "inconsiderate" as opposed to the positive "natural flow" interpretation I've been positing here.
<br><br>4. People cut in front of me in line-ups. Waiting for the bus, in the Ashram food line-up, at the airport security, pretty much anywhere. I continue to give a bit too much space between me and the person in front of me, trusting in the sanctity of an established queue to preserve my position, but there seems to be no shame among some Indians to just quietly and smoothing slipping in front. Even if I can catch their eye afterward with an indignant Western "shame on you" look, they just smile innocently back with an "I'm an Indian ant being absorbed into the flow of society" smile.
<br><br>I had more examples in my head, but that's enough to be human again. We travellers learn as much from our own mistakes as from our observations. Testing what annoys us leads to more insight than the signs on the museum walls. I don't have to like or agree with everything that's different here, but I do need to accept the rules (or lack thereof) and prevailing culture and do my best to honour and enjoy and operate within them. Keeping my head up in line-ups and down on the street will get me there faster, safer and, um, cleaner.Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-25536253128065344292012-05-24T06:28:00.001-07:002012-05-24T06:36:34.268-07:00Temple TourTo comfort the children before leaving, I told them a bedtime story about how my dad went away one summer to study in France. While he was away, everything was different. Mom gave us a bigger allowance, took us to a motel with a colour tv, and just ran the household fully her way. It was also the summer our dog Spiffy died, and that's when I remember missing him most of all, needing is strength, writing him about it on a big postcard with a picture of a mountie.
<br><br>Now I'm that professional away dad (albeit with much more internet contact), and living it all over again from the other side. Just as I had hoped, Sarah's enjoying the chance to be The Parent, without the compromise and sharing that any partnership requires. I understand that I'm a particularly strong and involved dad, putting my stamp and energy on much of our family's patterns, from our breakfast routine to afterschool play/chore balance. Not that she's an absentee mother by any stretch of the imagination - she's always beautifully, integrally involved in our family - it's just good for the boys (and her) to hear just her voice clearly without any echoes of Papa bouncing around.
<br><br>Maybe when I get back I'll even try to listen to it all for a while, see how to slip myself into whatever new form they've created before imposing my PowerPapa energy. Maybe I should do that once in a while anyways, take a step back from parenting to see what each of us brings to the parenting team... what all four of us bring to the family team.
<br><br>And now I'm the one missing my boys (I assume dad missed me), and even more acutely feeling them miss me. In the middle of a stunted but lovely facebook chat with the boys, describing elephants and temples and food, Zekiah slowly, carefully poked out "I mis u papa." Crying in an Indian internet cafe, suppose I'm not the first.
<br><br>When dad came back from France, we eagerly gathered the neighbours for the big slide show. Remember those big round carousels that you'd hold your breath hoping the next one would pop in? Dad had about 15 of them ready for us. And almost every picture was a statue. 10-20 of the same statue from different angles. He was so fascinated, and never really understood our laughter. Well, I look through my own photos and see a whole lot of temples, brighly-coloured Krishnas and Shivas, ancient stone carvings, all equally amazing. Many more photos than I'll share here, but here's a taste of the temple tour from yesterday.
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<br><br><br>This is a 3,500 year old mango tree in the courtyard of a 4,000 year old shrine. In Canada I live in a house that's over 70 years old and think that's cool. Thousands of years, just don't compute.
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<br><br><br>Why is Western religion so boring? Here's a carving in another extremely old "Temple of 100 Pillars", with great scenes like this, people dancing, gods on each others' shoulders, musicians, whole families in goofy polaroid poses. Paul in Corinthians would NOT approve. Yes Jesus turned water into wine and hung around with concubines, but we tend to gloss over that, not glorify it or even enjoy it. Song of Solomon is turned from a hot piece of poetry into a metaphor. Where are our Greek gods duking it out and wooing young maidens? Just like my posting yesterday about how people are so openly human, the Hindu religion is fun, playful, real (not to take away any of the sacredness).
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<br><br><br>This temple, over 2 football fields long, was carved out of a single stone. By hand. It's still not done - "no new Kings have come along to take on the project" explained my guide. When my boys become aggressive and artistic teenagers, I think I'll send them down here with a chisel to hammer out their pubescent angst.
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<br><br><br>This is inside one part of that huge hand-carved temple. Just mind-blowing to think of the work and care that went into this. Not exactly sure if there was an intended real use, or just an over-the-top art installation, but worthy of its World Heritage status.
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<br><br><br>Just as cool as the ancient monuments are the everyday, every block (it seems) shrines. This one was just along some road close to my hotel. People stop by for a quickie on their way to work or wherever they're going. I've been in also - it's a quick moment of Peace and orientation (for me, won't speak to what it means for them). The care and devotion to these shrines, as well as to their houses, decorations, sidewalk paintings little touches everywhere, just keep this place alive and beautiful.
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<br><br><br>One last photo from one other temple, just to prove that I'm not simply downloading internet images (thanks mom, for the hot pink camera, lets me be so discreet with my photo work...)
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One fun part of the all-day AC bus tour was that it was all Indian tourists and me. When we got to the beach resort for lunch, they went crazy in the water, probably the first time in the ocean for many of them. Splashing each other, shrieking and running back from the waves, getting more and more brave and wet over time. That's a universal language, the first time in the ocean.Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-11936049885005915572012-05-22T04:38:00.001-07:002012-05-24T06:01:36.236-07:00Surprise Temple<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Played my favourite game this morning - chose a destination on the other side of a strange town (Chennai), took one look at the map to get oriented then folded it into my pocket and started meandering that direction. Chose small streets, back alleys, another small doorstep to perch on with a 25 cent breakfast plate. Then on some random street, idly wondering with no attachment if i was still on track, there suddenly was the temple looming up above the world just down the street. I'd walked straight into it. Made it feel like a secret treasure, like i was the only explorer who had ever found it. Made me want to claim it for the queen. If I do the half-day guided bus tour on Friday we'll actually come back, but with a driver on an air-conditioned coach it will lose all of its Indiana Jones charm (though it will still be magnificent.)
<br><br>Along the way I saw so many people just going about their daily lives - the stuff of life that we hide behind long driveways and curtained windows in Canada. Men in their diaper-like traditional thong-cloths, big bellies and droopy chests unnoticed as they squat on rock piles to brush their teeth or inhale cleansing water up their noses. The usual naked kids being bathed. A women brushing her long beautiful tangled hair on a second-story balcony. One balcony over another half-naked man with 5 ritual strips of white chalk-paint/smudge on his forehead, both nipples, belly-button, and elbow creases. A mother pumping water into bright coloured plastic jugs while her daughter holds down the top pump mechanism, which she had carried from home. Women heating up morning tea and foods in big metal cauldrons in the front entry hallways of their buildings. One older woman calling me over to watch as she bottle-feeds a baby monkey.
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<br><br>There's just no shame in being human here, no running away from any sign of mortality like in our Western culture.
<br><br>Another thing I'm appreciating is the lack of overwhelming attention I receive. There are curious looks, amused looks, "there's something you don't see everyday" looks. But the world doesn't end when I walk by - even conversations don't end. When I hear people laughing it's usually because they've said something funny to each other, not because a white alien just walked by. Rather than being offered to go to the front of the line, I had to jostle for position like everyone else at the museum. Unlike Africa, where no matter how long I live there I'm still a curio, an amusing animal at the zoo who's even more amusing after learning clever tricks like speaking Swahili or eating local food with my right hand. Here I'm another human being - a foreigner sometimes meriting extra attention, but still a fellow human being. After 4 days I still don't know the Tamil word for White Man - it took me about 4 minutes in Zaire to learn "Mundelli Mundelli Mundelli."
<br><br>Which brings me to my third and final anthropological observation of the day. In yesterday's post the word "condescending" jumped off my fingertips as I typed, and I wondered about it later. There can be times when my over-friendly, over-inquisitive greetings are just as dehumanizing as the African experience I just described above. "Hello funny little brown man, wearing a funny diaper on your little motorcycle..." I don't greet people in my own community with an amused curiosity, so why should I do it here? I should and hopefully do greet people at home with a genuine warmth and openness to hearing and sharing their journey (or atleast a 2-second snapshot of it), and I should bring that to my interactions with people here too. They're not museum pieces set in place for me to photograph and blog about; they're humans living remarkably similar lives in a remarkably different place, and it's in recognizing both those similarities and those differences that we truly acknowledge our kinship and find a connection.
<br><br>The human respect I feel from Indians in the street is reinforcing this lesson, but it's not new. Back in high school I joined the "Special Kiwanis Youth" club at school, working with developmentally disabled adults. At first I did it mostly to increase my chances at scholarships and with Dawn Rydeen, but grew to genuinely love the experience and the people, and went on to coach them in the BC Special Olympics long after the scholarships had passed by. One day my girlfriend Dawn (yes, the ploy worked) thanked me for having moved past my initial child-like treatment and learning to meet them as adults in a different place.
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<br><br>A dozen years later, I returned at night to my Tanzanian fishing village after some time away and woke up Barney Mpombo to get my mail from the church office. He shook himself awake and fetched the mail, then as he handed it to me, the always-smiling and accommodating face turned dark and he said, "Don't ever ask me this again." I suddenly, shamefully realized that I had treated this man, 10 years my senior and the #2 most powerful, respected man in the church diocese, like some expendable junior third director who had nothing else going in his life except to indulge my needs (not that I should treat an employee or anyone that way either). This isn't a first-greeting example, but speaks to the same issue of seeing other people in relation to our needs and interests.
<br><br>Well, I'd love to tell you about the temples, fresh mangos, public bus ride, market shopping, dosas, Bollywood film, dead puppy on the roadside altar, string of 200 fireworks lit on the road to stop traffic and celebrate a young man's arrival after some important life event, historic fort tour, hand-made 25-foot long bamboo ladder strapped to the side of a bicycle, and other amazements that have filled these first 2 days here in Chennai, but you can read all that in the Lonely Planet guides, and hopefully I'll be able to upload photos that will fill those thousand words. Besides, this internet cafe is costing me a whopping 20 rupees (40 cents) per hour, and has become rather cramped and hot, and horns are constantly tooting outside reminding me to get back out and experience some more.
<br><br>So instead I'll leave you with this sign from the washroom door of the department store so modern and fancy that they had sit-down toilets instead of the usual squat kind.
<br><br>GUIDELINES TO USE WESTERN TOILET
<br>1. Sit on seat cover and don't climb on seat.
<br>2. Don't wash your feet in the toilet. Don't wet the floor.
<br>3. Flush before and after using the toilet.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDVzeTW3T_mPTjXcCjM5qJPiaKiw48ZPxHrrL1e9gV2HDwcPZUGUnef0Z_Dxj42cSs4NFlQ7MCJXuwfZj6Ae1Ho-ew-lu-EQZ8RaQqNxyvOsRUZgJDfBJHbJ9fwpjBvkgONryevCBApw/s1600/DSC00902.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDVzeTW3T_mPTjXcCjM5qJPiaKiw48ZPxHrrL1e9gV2HDwcPZUGUnef0Z_Dxj42cSs4NFlQ7MCJXuwfZj6Ae1Ho-ew-lu-EQZ8RaQqNxyvOsRUZgJDfBJHbJ9fwpjBvkgONryevCBApw/s400/DSC00902.JPG" /></a></div>Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6546720810282359735.post-32548569292475322342012-05-21T00:17:00.001-07:002012-05-21T00:19:41.451-07:00Indian deja-vuOh ya, i remember this! I remember how to find an alternate guest house when the one I booked online has moved, changed names, and won't answer the door at 2am. I remember how to come out of a cold bucket shower at 2:30am and stand under the paddle fan to let evaporative cooling do its thing. I remember how to use bottled water for tooth brushing, and how to use the bucket of water instead of toilet paper for the squat Indian toilet
<br><br>I remember how to connect naturally and respectfully with people. Friendly but not over-engaged or condescending greetings. Choosing the roadside food stand with the friendliest bunch of men all standing with plates in hand, happily using their fingers to scoop up maandazi and white-paste patties with mystery sauce, and happily teaching me the names of the mystery foods they're indoctrinating me with. Sitting on the roadside near but not too near others, letting them smile and approach me as i drink in the passing scene. Bargaining with the three-wheel-motorized-taxi driver just enough to earn respect but still comfortably overpay.
<br><br>I remember the universal kid English greetings - How are you, I'm fine thank you, What is your name? And how to say it with the wide open-mouth accent that's more universally understood. And how to communicate without assuming that everyone speaks my language (I'm actually surprised that more people don't speak English, atleast beyond a very basic greeting and directions level - one of many pre-conceived notions I'm quickly shedding.)
<br><br>I remember how to cut down a quiet side-street, passing women sweeping the dirt in front of their charcoal cookers, kids running barefoot or naked, families quietly emerging from their makeshift shelters to greet the day.
<br><br>I remember not to be overwhelmed. Mostly I'm surprised that it's not wall-to-wall people, that i can walk fairly safely along the roadside, that the noises and smells are just a gentle chaos of character. I don't have to be afraid of the police, wary of people walking behind, annoyed at constant attention. It aint the Cowichan Valley, but it also aint Kiburu slums in Kenya or crazy Egyptian taxi drivers or packed Kinshasa streets at midnight. It's just a full, alive, but oddly gentle India welcoming me this first morning.Rick Juliussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15652777017001535161noreply@blogger.com0