The Road To Delhi

Post Script

2007-11-22T10:27:00.001-05:00

An Indian poet, Abdullah Khan Ghalib, once wrote, "I asked my soul, what is Delhi? It replied, the world is the body, Delhi is its soul." After my first day in Delhi, I thought, If that's true, what a tortured soul Delhi is.

I have been home a week and I confess, I am not quite back yet despite the busyness that I immediately plunged into in Toronto.

Part of the unsettled feeling is my love-hate relationship with Delhi, and indeed with India. There is so much to dislike in the parts of India I visited, but so much more that is intriguing, that makes me want to explore the country more. Jill has said several times, On this trip, you've seen the underbelly of India - these are some of the poorest people in the world. Maybe so. But when I think underbelly, I think danger, seediness, and disrespect.

Granted, maybe that's what the local poor experience, not visitors who can leave and return to the West any time. I certainly picked up hints of that when I did not stay with the foreigners as a group. But my sense of India echoes what Sandra said: India is not dangerous, it's just kind of wacky.

I don't want to leave India on a low note. I have not left on a low note, but I have not seen enough of India. I've caught glimpses of its beauty in Kashmir and in blogs that fellow marchers who are still in India are writing. For example, in Madeleine's blog.

In books, when I come across an author referring to a city as a woman and attributes human characteristics to her, I've never really understood what that meant. But now I know. I have been treating Delhi like a person. I think it's a she. She sits there, like an impassive mother, not caring whether I am well or not, because she knows I am capable of looking after myself. And what's the worst that could happen to me? I get frustrated, I get mad. Meh. She is chaotic, noisy, unpredictable, and expansive. She is a person I need to know better to prevent her from inadvertently doing me harm; she is like an enemy I need to conquer. But in her busy disorder, she is non-discriminating and provides respite to those who seek balm.

It's these little respites that intrigue me, that make me think India may be fermenting, and Delhi is a reflection of that fervour, but I have reason to believe she will emerge as a good place on earth when things get sorted out. It must be human nature to not settle for what is but always to look for the good. I have seen that good in Delhi's frenetic craze.

For example, when I wandered Connaught Place with a map in front of me, a man offered to direct me to where I wanted to go. I told him I didn't have a destination in mind; I was merely trying to get my bearing. He looked at my map, showed me where I was on the map, then said, Your map is an old one. You need an updated one. So he took me to a tourist bureau for a new map. Before leaving me, he advised, India's official tourist information bureaus carry the Indian government's official stamp, but they are also travel agencies. Go in there and ask for an updated map of Delhi. Don't let them sell you a trip anywhere, unless you want to go on a trip. Then he took his leave.

Inside the tourist bureau, the agent gave me a new map and offered me several tours. I told him I didn't want to book anything, that I would like to gather information only, especially on how to get to the Himalayas. He had someone bring me chai and explained several possibilities. Then he gave me his card and bade me a good day. There was no pressure selling.

The next time someone offered me help, I was trying to use the pay phone at the airport. Seeing me hang up several times, a man came up to look at my phone number and explained what the different digits meant. I had been dialing too many digits. He helped me get through to my call and waved good bye.

Later, for another phone call, I needed 1 Rupee coins. I went to a busy coffee stand and asked for change for my 100 Rupee note. The man behind the counter said he didn't have enough coin change for me, but he did have two 1-Rupee coin in his drawer. So he gave them to me and said, It's okay, use these, no problem. Later, I realized me, the "rich" foreigner, effectively bummed money off a vendor.

Each time I took a taxi from the airport, I knew I was being overcharged, but I also saw the drivers were just doing what they could to make a living. So I pay a bit more, but they were as hospitable as can be, pointing out the different sites of the city to me, inquiring about my family, telling me about theirs. They ensured I not only got to the address I gave them, but made sure someone was at that address to receive me, even if they had to inquire at the neighbouring addresses and wait with me till someone I knew came. I sensed they did not want to leave me stranded and vulnerable.

And then there is Shannon and Lisa, who have stayed in Delhi to work for Ekta Parishad. They share an apartment that provides accommodation to those who do work for the organization. They extended their apartment to me as shelter when I went through Delhi. And I received the benefit of their company as well as the company of those who happened to stay at the apartment when I was there.

The thing is, each time I came into Delhi, the city seemed more manageable, more civilized, more hospitable, less crazy, but always filled with potential for the unexpected. I think the rest of India is also like that, if I could come into the country a few times more.

As I write this, ice pellets are falling outside. It's -9C with the wind chill in Toronto. I toss my cigarette butt in the compost bin and throw a handful of snow over it. I am really glad I have a heated house to go inside to. I've just dyed my hair. I wonder what's happening in India. Is Delhi still hot and dusty? Have all the marchers made it home and are they comfortable in their homes with their families? I hope so. The weather forecast says Srinagar is -1C but sunny this week. Has snow arrived? They don't have central heating. Are men walking around with a pot of hot coal under their farans yet? Are all the women staying inside stoking the fire to keep their families warm?

I think India is still waiting for me.

I'll Be Back

2007-11-12T20:17:00.000-05:00

It's been six weeks since I left home. My time away is up. I leave Kabul for Delhi (again Delhi!) in one hour. Wait 14 hours for the flight home. Then get on a plane in the middle of the night for Canada.

I will be home Wednesday, November 14, around noon.

But India and Afghanistan, I'm not done with you. I'll be back.

Janadesh In Pictures

2007-11-12T06:56:00.000-05:00

Now that the Janadesh march is over, I miss it. Most of the photographs I took were of the march and now seems a good time to post them, since I have nothing, nada, rien, zip thing to do in Kabul. Because of my leaning to community arts, please excuse the abundance of dance pictures.

We joined the march in Dholpur. Under the scorching sun, it was 40C in the shade. Foreigners found shelter in the shade of a bus. But many of the marchers sat in the open field. This team came prepared. They were the only ones with umbrellas. But I think they must belong to a tribe that carries umbrellas as part of their travel gear.

The marchers bathe daily using the water truck. Men and women take turns. They also eliminate in the field. Foreigners turn aghast, but the marchers just turn a discreet blind eye.

My first encounter with colourful women on the march. They were standing a few feet away just staring at me. I gestured I would take a photo of them and they posed for the shot.

The next day, we got to the march before it started. That's when I found out the Buddhist monks lead the march everyday.

After the Buddhist monks come representatives from the lead team of the day. Each day, the march showcases a team that represents a region or tribe of India. These representatives usually wear their local costume, make music and dance their way through the day's march. They also invite others to join in the dancing.

After the showcase team, the marchers go in order from team 1 to 24. This is team 1 waiting to start the day.

Some marchers wait patiently to start.

Many women carry their supplies for the entire march in one bag on their heads.

Locals gather to watch the marchers.

Some marchers take their infants with them on the march.

Rajagopal makes a speech after he is greeted by a group of school children in one of the villages.

Women on the march.

In one of villages, we were greeted by women who carry flower urns on their heads. This is what I mean about being a bad journalist. I asked where these women came from, then could not remember the name of their tribe or region because the names were all foreign to me.

Locals watching the march go by.

Some marchers were always jubilant.

Another group of school children greet the marchers.

Me learning to make chippati with one of the teams.

My chippati teachers.

On a very hot day (were there any other kind of days?), the march stopped so the Buddhist could lead a two-hour meditation to send wisdom to the Indian parliament.

Marchers often played instruments as they danced and chanted.

My favourite - the genderless/transvestite dancers. They were graceful and fluid, inviting me to dance with them whenever I passed. Even after I tripped and stomped on one of their feet, they invited me again the next day. Maybe they didn't recognize me from the day before because I had changed my clothes.

A tribe with bow and arrow.

One afternoon, Carole and I were recruited to lead the march part of the way.

A brillian sunset.

Marchers getting read to cook.

Another spectacular sunset.

My other favourite - men with bells on their ankles.

One day, the march stopped to wait for the minister to come make an announcement. The minister never showed. But the marchers put on a wonderful show.

Men from Rajasthan with their colourful turbans.

Back on the march with another showcase team.

They marched wearing shoes, or not.

Marchers getting ready to sleep on the side of the road.

Watching the march from my balcony in Delhi.

Final day of the march. The march was locked in this field and not allowed to proceed.

So my other favourite dancers danced the time away. These two are the men with bells on their feet. This one is Francoise' favourite.

This one is my favourite.

Representatives from the lead team waiting to start.

But the police wouldn't let the march through.

Do they look mean?

In the end, the marchers did not proceed. By the end of the day, the Prime Minister had signed the proposal for land reform that had been in front of parliament for three years. Ekta Parishad was very happy for this step towards land reform.

I went back to our hostel and joined some people who found an arts performance at one of the arts schools near by. My eyes and/or balance have gotten very bad in the last month. Not even an idiot-proof digital camera was safe in my maneuvering.

A Little Bit of Canada in Kabul

2007-11-11T23:27:00.000-05:00

We were invited to the Canadian Embassy for Remembrance Day. Each guest received a red poppy to pin on our coats. Then they had a ceremony, speeches, and a minute of silence. After, we were invited to a light luncheon at the ambassador's residence.

We were served smoked salmon on rye, egg rolls with sweet and sour sauce, curry potato salad, sandwiches with the crust cut off, salsa and corn chips, and veggies with ranch dip. All very Canadian. Canada's Ministry of Defense sent representatives to attend the ceremony. The Afghan government sent two ministers: The Minister of Defense and the Minister of Rural Rehabilitation, who happens to be Douglas' boss.

Among the people I met was a woman from Vancouver. I can't remember her name, but she and her husband are in Afghanistan to help farmers grow soy beans. She's lived in Kabul for two years. So we stood together and had our photograph taken with a Mountie.

The Canadian Embassy compound runs a stretch of road behind several guarded barricades. About 30 staff work and live there, along with soldiers who are stationed in Kabul. One young embassy staff told us on that stretch of road, they play ball hockey. When a car comes through, they shout, Car! move the nets, and stand aside. When the car passes, they put everything back in place and resume their game. Just like home, eh?

Except when the Russians found out the Canadians were playing hockey on the street, they wanted to play too. These young Canadians are embassy staff, not soldiers. They didn't spend their youth honing their sports prowess playing hockey. They look more like skinny, little bookworms. The Russians on the other hand are heft International Security Assistance Force soldiers. They patrol the streets looking fierce with guns pointing in the air, in tows of three or four over-sized, mud-coloured hummers. All traffic must stop when their hummers approach, must not interfere with their destination, even if they are just going to Kentucky Fried Chicken for coffee. Or, they could gun you down.

So far, the Canadians have not accepted the Russians' invitation to play street hockey. But how long can they hold out? The young embassy man admitted they were afraid of the Russians and are desperately looking through their conduct manual for a policy that prohibits them from engaging in recreational sports with staff from other embassies. Heck, they could just tell the Russians such a policy exists. They don't have to show them the manual.

In the evening, we went to dinner at the Gandamack restaurant. You have to go through this secret door, walk through a lane to get into the restaurant behind.

The restaurant serves a mix of Afghan, Italian, French, and American food. You get grilled meat, pasta, and burgers. There was a large table reserved for a party of 20. When those guests arrived, we knew most of them were Canadian. They were the ones wearing a red poppy on their jackets. And Douglas recognized some of them from the Remembrance Day ceremony.

Then we went through this set of ancient doors to the basement where the smoky bar was.

In the smoky, low-ceilinged, basement bar, you meet these bad boys, building up their jobs as gun-runners in case their careers as international development workers get boring.

Douglas

Chris

Helge

The Afghans

2007-11-10T21:29:00.000-05:00

I love that in Afghanistan, they call foreigners "ferengi". That is so Star Trek.

I also love the way Afghans put their right hand over their heart in greeting, like when one of the ministry drivers did when he said in his limited English, "You are welcome to Afghanistan." When they extend this kind of hospitality, the gesture and tone of voice come together in such genuine expression.

Another driver invited Douglas and I to his sister's wedding. But Douglas had to work that night so we didn't go. If it weren't inappropriate for me to go by myself, I think I might have gone. I'm just that way.

Yesterday, having no plans for the day, again, I settled down to read the Lonely Planet guide to Afghanistan. It says the Pashtun moral code is ingrained in every Afghan, taking precedence over any external laws. They live by siali - individual equality, nang - honour, and melmastia - hospitality.

The Afghan draws a strict distinction between private and public life but family is always the bedrock. Nang is central to his identity and women are seen as the symbol of family honour. Melmastia is hospitality to all visitors without expectation of reward. Now I remember Elizabeth telling me that of all the people she met in the Middle East, Afghans were the most hospitable.

When I see an older Afghan in a turban sitting in his shop hand weaving a carpet, I see contentment, kindness, pride, and honour on his face. I am drawn to these old men and want to sit with them and chat, but I don't. It would be inappropriate.

Despite my inability to get out and see more of Afghanistan, there is something about the people that intrigues me. It really has to do with how they treat guests, and how they take care of each other. For example, the guards in front of every house could just sit there and act bored. But they all greet me. The young guards at the U.N. compound always come across the street to help me cross back over when I get out of the car. Even children who try to sell me things say, Today I am your bodyguard.

Despite all that, corruption in the government is high. One young man Chris works with is 33. He earns a good salary at the ministry. But he supports half his village with his earnings. He supports his immediate family, parents, siblings and neighbours. He pays for teachers to come to his village twice a week so the girls can have some schooling. A job came up in the anti-corruption unit of the ministry. He applied and was told he was best qualified for the job, so if he could pay three officials a sum of money each, the job would be his. He had no money to pay. The job went to a relative of one of the officials. In the anti-corruption unit!

One young man Douglas works with is a graphic artist. He learned how to do that to earn a living. He too supports his extended family with his earnings. He told Douglas he really wants to be an accountant. So he attends university at night. He said, I work for my family, but I go to school for myself.

I notice sometimes that shop merchants look at and talk to Douglas but not me, even when they try to sell us women's clothing. I decided I wouldn't take offence, that it must be some kind of cultural habit. Lonely Planet tells me that is in fact the case. An Afghan would consider himself violating me and being disrespectful to Douglas if he looked and talked to me directly. In turn, I should not look at an Afghan directly either. Too late for that now. But the generous and hospitable Afghan makes allowances for social faux-pas for ferengis.

Out of respect for Afghan tradition, I have taken to covering my head when I go out, as rare as that is. I did that in rural India (though more to get shade from the sun), so no reason I can't do that here. Truth is, I quite like covering my head. I feel feminine and protected. I would even wear a burqa if Lonely Planet hadn't said that would be a disrespectful thing for a foreign woman to do. I have to settle for my faran.

The only Afghan women I have access to are the women who come to clean the room. They don't speak English but we still manage to exchange greetings and let each other know what we want. I don't get the feeling they are laughing at me, they seem so respectful and sincere. So unlike the Chinese who criticize and make fun of you to your face because they know you don't understand the language.

But I am sure corruption and economic hardhship are not the only dark side to Afghan life. I need to know more.

Weekend

2007-11-09T06:29:00.000-05:00

Today is Friday, a weekend in Kabul. Weekends are only one day in Kabul. But Douglas has to work in the morning and evening preparing for a "jirga". A jirga is a conference with the elders of many communities. For this one, they will talk about community development. A thousand or so people are coming in from different parts of Afghanistan to participate. Douglas got me an ID pass for the jirga so I can help out. How I don't know. I am free labour.

So to feel weekend-ish, we went out for dinner last night to a Chinese restaurant. Douglas' colleague, Helge, invited us, perhaps to thank me for editing his document. We drove through an ex-pat neighbourhood where all the houses were behind cement walls with barbed wires. At each doorway, there are at least two guards. The restaurant, The Golden Key, is also behind a thick cement wall. A guard opens a short door to let us through.

The food wasn't bad in this restaurant, though not as good as I'm accustomed to in Toronto. It's the over-use of salt that spoils an otherwise good dish. But I pulled a good one. Helge ordered a bottle of red wine. It was Jacob's Creek, an Australian red. It should have been an okay wine for me. I've determined with my book club of special dietary needs members that Australian wines are the only wines we can drink because they process the wine twice to remove most of the sulphite.

But I reacted to something. I had half a glass of wine over dinner. Then I felt myself flush. I felt myself go pale as Helge and Douglas kept asking if I was okay. I started to heave and had trouble breathing. When I knew I wasn't okay, I asked for the washroom. Douglas helped me get there. But I didn't make it. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor and I threw up. The restaurant staff ran around getting me napkins and finally a blue plastic basin to dump my guck into. Then I cleaned myself up in the washroom and felt better.

So what am I to think now? Jacob's Creek may be one of the few Australian reds that is only processed once and contains high sulphite. Or it was the MSG in the food. Or it's the combination of sulphite and MSG that caused my reaction.

We went home and Helge gave me a special tea he calls "Feel Relaxed" tea. It's all natural. The ingredients are gathered in the Black Forest by women. I quite liked it. It's light, smooth and fruity. His company is promoting this tea in Germany.

This morning, I stayed in the room to rest. Douglas went to the dining hall and ordered breakfast to be sent to me. With my breakfast Helge sent a pot of Feel Relaxed tea!

In the afternoon, Douglas was free. He arranged for a ministry car and driver to take us around. Helge also joined us for the afternoon. We first went to a leather shop and ordered a bag for me. I don't need another purse, but I ordered a big one anyway. It will be my souvenir from Kabul.

We next went to the Babur Gardens for a stroll. Babur is the grandfather of the Moghul who built the Taj Mahal.

Then we went to the Serena Hotel for coffee. The Serena is the poshest hotel in Kabul. They scan the car before they let it into the parking lot, then they get you to empty out your pockets, check your purse, and have you walk through an airport scanner before letting you into the hotel.

The hotel is Western, clean and dust free. I walked in, breathed a sigh of relief and said, I am home. We went to the bar to order coffee and cake. In the pastry display case, there were many beautiful looking cakes and French pastries. That Helge. Steve and James would love him. And he seems so serious all the time. He didn't order just one piece of pastry. He ordered one pastry, plus a whole pear flan!

So I ate my chocolate eclair and had a slice of pear flan. I had a Sprite and coffee. Then Helge said there were other pastries in the case. He went back and ordered a blueberry tart and a mango tart. We split them. That means in one sitting, I ate three pieces of dessert for lunch.

Then we went to see Douglas' apartment. It is quaint, charming, and rustic even though it is sort of new. It is in fact a romantic set up. By that, I mean it is like an artist studio with low doorways, a wood-burning stove for heater, peeling walls, iron gates, and guards outside. If I were a man and an artist, and this is not a Muslim country under military guard, this is the apartment where I would produce love-children.

In the evening, Douglas went back to the jirga and I went home. Now I'm trying to not be sick from this afternoon's pastries.

India In Pictures

2007-11-08T03:01:00.000-05:00

I know I haven't posted many photographs of India. It was difficult to do during the march. You could do it, but I didn't have the patience to wait 15 minutes to upload each photo.

Now that I have full time, high speed internet access on Douglas' computer during the day, and Sue says Callum is going to India in January, I will put some photos up. My pictures are limited to what I saw in villages during the march, but some of them depict the Indian way of life.

Shannon, me, and Lisa getting ready for the march one day.

We marched right by this structure.

Some shops in a village we passed.

Vendors opening up shop.

Women on a rooftop watching us watching them.

How many Indians does it take to change a light bulb? In this case, four. They really were change a light bulb. And they didn't let height or the lack of a proper ladder stop them.

Me outside the Taj Mahal. We arrived on a Friday and the Taj was closed!

Cows share the road in downtown Agra.

Even village roads are congested.

Neva, one of the French marchers, contemplates whether she wants to buy what they sell, if only we could figure out what they were selling.

Life in a village.

The Sikh temple that rescued me from being lost in Mathura.

But look how selective they are about who they accept donations from.

A village of cow dung huts. Dried cow dug disks are piled up to make these huts. They are not to live in. This is just a storage system. The dung disks are burned as fuel, chipped away from the huts as needed.

A Hindu temple ruin. You can't take pictures in villages without kids getting in on it.

Narrow lanes inside a village.

A village road before rush hour.

They really like to cram in the passengers.

Everyone and everything share the road.

Cute little girls.

Even in Delhi the big city, we have to cross the railroad tracks to get to the internet cafe.

At the market with Mohamed.

Kabul

2007-11-07T14:51:00.000-05:00

To come to Kabul, I first had to go back to Delhi. It seems I am always going to Delhi, that dreaded city of smog, sweat, sewage, and sight for sore eyes. I marvel at the freedom I had in Delhi, how I maneuvered my way through the city, even from the airport to unknown neighbourhoods.

I have now been in Kabul for three days but have not seen much of the city.

That's because I'm told not to go outside of the U.N. compound where Douglas is staying. They tell me not to go out by myself. It's not bombing they fear, but crimes committed by locals. Apparently, locals kidnap and rape women, though none of Douglas' colleagues say harm has actually come to women since they have been here, even the man who's lived in Kabul for four years.

There was a kidnapping of a Western woman last month. She was nabbed in a restaurant by a group of men in front of her husband. But the kidnapping was a bungled attempt, done on a whim more than a planned kidnapping. The police knew immediately who was responsible and got the woman back within 24 hours. Maybe the woman's husband even put the men up to it.

Still, the caution is issued from everyone I've met so far. So I stay in the U.N. compound and try to catch up on my blog. I am a kept woman. I am in solitary confinement though I wander the grounds, and order food, make tea in the dining building. I could be bored out of my mind if I didn't have a cold and actually want to rest. And if I weren't so good at doing nothing. I can hardly believe I am here in Kabul with Douglas. When he comes home from work, he squeezes my arm to see if I am really here.

When you enter the gates of the compound, you enter a courtyard. There are administrative and security offices to the side. At the end of the courtyard are the dining building and a gym. There is also a vine-covered walkway that men hose down every morning. The walkway courts a garden, with picnic benches and parakeets in cages. At the end of the walkway is another courtyard. There is a fountain and a swimming pool here. Go through this area and you enter another garden. Off to the right is the building where Douglas lives. He has a room on the second floor.

Open wall spaces in the gardens are stuffed with sandbags. There are sandbags piles beside walls and covered with plastic sheets.

All the doors in this compound are low. They clear my head but I notice Douglas tilts his a bit to make sure he doesn't get banged.

From the car, I've only seen compounds here in Kabul. They are all behind solid iron gates, with uniformed, gun-toting guards manning them. I don't know what private homes look like. Douglas has rented an apartment in a private house in a security approved area and will be moving there soon. He says the house does not have an iron gate in front. It has a heavy wooden gate, with armed guards keeping vigil.

A couple of nights ago, we went to dinner at the Sizzler, an American-style steak house. I ordered a filet mignon. In Canada, an order of filet mignon is usually the smallest cut, maybe 6 oz. What I got was a honking slab of meat. It was easily 18 oz. I barely managed half. The restaurant was about 20 minutes away by car. During the ride to and from the restaurant, I saw no one on the street. Where do people go at night in Kabul?

Yesterday, we ventured out for a stroll in the afternoon. We took a car to an area that has shops, then walked to Chicken Street. That really is its name. There were many shops on Chicken Street, selling clothes, carpets, jewelery, and trinkets. Everything is covered in dust. People stared at us and I wonder if we've now been marked as kidnapping targets. The shopkeepers all wave us into their shops, saying, Come inside and look, looking is free.

That may be so. But suffering the dust and pollution of Kabul will cost me later. We couldn't have been out for more than an hour. I wanted to come back to the compound because I couldn't breath. Kabul has more dust, though less diesel fumes than Delhi. We came back to the compound by taxi and I crashed on the sofa in the dining building with exhaustion. I spent the next half hour trying to revive myself with Jasmine tea.

Yesterday, a suicide bomber outside Kabul killed 35 people, including three government ministers. Today, some of the roads in Kabul are closed for the funeral.

I've made Kabul sound dangerous. It is not. It is because I have nothing to do here. The bombing was targetted at the ministers.

Today, a colleague of Douglas' sent me a file to edit. It is written in English by an Afghani so it needs some smoothing out to make it read better. It is not badly written at all. So today, I am working and I stop making up stories about the dangers of Kabul.

Naranag And A Faran

2007-11-07T02:48:00.000-05:00

When we got back from the boat market, I showered and had breakfast. Then we set off for another mountain. This time, to Naranag.

I expressed a desire to have my own faran. I had grown fond of wearing the one lent to me and liked the way they hang on just about everyone I see. I am sure Dior and Givenchy had been to Kashmir and incorporated the flow of the Kashmiri faran into their designs.

Mohamed took me to his friend the tailor. I choose a light burgundy wool and the tailor quoted me 850 rupees to make the faran. I asked Mohamed if that was a good price. Mohamed said 800. So the tailor agreed and said, You are a guest, I give you good price. I almost laughed. I wanted to say, Okay give me the local price instead. But why not contribute to the Kashmiri economy? I am getting a custom-made wool faran for $20. It will be ready by evening.

Naranag is also a two-hour ride away by car, but in the opposite direction of Yousmarg, I think. Naranag is the most awe-inspiring mountain I have ever seen. It is what I've imagined the Himalayas to be.

There are also villages in this mountain. Mohamed asked if I wanted to buy sweets for the children. I agreed and purchased a bag of orange candies. I gave it to Mohamed to hand out so I could take pictures.

On Naranag, houses perch on mountain slopes with sculpted rice fields all around.

The narrow road up the mountain twisted, turned, and coiled, some parts with steep drops down the mountain face. Yet, drivers still make room for oncoming traffic as if it's no big deal. A few times I gasped as our driver pulled over to sit on a slant to let traffic pass. I think if I sneezed, our car would have plunged down the cliff.

But oh, the view was magnificent.

The car stopped in front of a Hindu temple ruin where we had lunch.

Mohamed and I then walked into the mountain for a few hours.

Some gypsy girls we met.

Mohamed giving candies to children.

Adults asked for candies too so Mohamed gave some to a brickmaker. He was making bricks by hand in the sun.

Mohamed nudged me each time we saw gypsies pass by. Most of them herded buffaloes and goats. We met women and girls carrying bundles of wood on their heads as they came out of the forests. They gather wood in preparation for winter. Here, some gypsy women accompanied us on our walk for a bit as they headed into the forest. They spoke a few words of English. The younger one kept saying, Come, come. I think she wanted me to gather wood with her. This is one of the few pictures that had me in it.

Some wood gatherers on the way back to their homes.

When we got back to the car in late afternoon, I thought the coat I had brought for the day had gone missing. I asked Mohamed if he noticed if I in fact had brought the coat. He said yes, here it is. He put the coat he was carrying in the back seat. He said, I took the coat because I thought you might get cold. I hadn't even noticed Mohamed carrying my coat on our walk. But there he is in that photograph giving candies to children, with my coat draped over his shoulders. I feel spoiled having someone anticipate my needs so.

Back at the boathouse, I had to pass up an invitation to another wedding feast. Ali had invited me to accompany him to his daughter's new home where her in-laws would host the dinner. After dinner, Ali would bring his daughter home for a few days. I was just too tired and achy all over to go.

After dinner, Mohamed went to his friend the tailor's to pick up my faran. It is beautiful. I have actually been writing from Kabul where I arrived two days ago. Douglas says the faran makes me look like a Buddhist monk. Good thing I didn't get one made for him! I feel more like one of Margaret Atwood's handmaids. I will even give that the faran is like a Kashmiri muumuu. It matters not what you've got under, you're just covered and comfortable with a faran on.

So I love my faran and it swooshes when I turn. At the airport out of Srinagar, one of the security women who searched me noticed my faran and commented that it fits me well. She made sure I knew it was called a faran and that it was native Kashmiri dress. How tent dresses make me happy.

The Lake At Dawn

2007-11-06T18:47:00.000-05:00

Each morning, I am awakened by the faraway sound of men chanting. I know it's the call for prayer coming from a nearby mosque. In the comfort of my bed, I find the chanting melodic and soothing. I think I detect an oboe accompanying the voices of men.

The third morning, I woke up to the voices of prayer as usual. It was 5 a.m. I had to get ready for my visit to the open boat market. We got outside the boathouse where a shakara was waiting. A shakara is like a gondola. It is a long pointy boat with a canopy, an area for sitting, and an area where the "shakarier" rows the boat. You find shakaras only in Kashmir.

But silly me, I forgot to take a photograph of my shakara. Here is a blurry picture of someone else's shakara at the boat market.

The boatman fitted the seating area with cushions while Mohamed brought blankets from the boathouse. I climbed in from the pointy end of the boat and walk across to the cushions under the canopy. Mohamed tucked a thick blanket around me to keep me warm. But I was not paying attention to the boat. I was listening to the sound of prayers over the water at dawn.

I was mistaken about a nearby mosque. There was not one mosque. There were several, maybe six or eight. They were spread around Lake Nagin where my houseboat sat.

Truly, the combined voices of different chants and varying pitches coming from mosques across the lake is like the sound of men answering god with song. As the shakara glided across the water, the chanting from each nearby mosque became louder as other chants receded into a background drone. I was also mistaken about hearing an oboe. That was the faraway sound of chanting at a lower pitch.

At 5:30 a.m., the sky was still dark. The droning chants over the water was haunting, eerie, and enchanting. It was peaceful and beautiful as the horizon grew brighter with the sunrise, and this happens everyday. I cannot reconcile men who pray to god like that with terrorists. Indeed, I have been told many times, terrorists have nothing to do with Islam.

As the boat man paddled out of Lake Nagin and into Dal Lake, farmers in wooden boats glided by, carrying their ware to market.

They are wholesalers who sell to market vendors who sell to the general population. Wholesalers and vendors bargain and barter till they get what they want. Then the market vendors take their goods to market for the day. Everything is done on the water, from boat to boat.

The open boat market starts about 4:30 a.m. and ends when morning has broken. In recent years, sellers of finished products also come to the boat market with their wares because they know tourists come to see the boat market. I bought saffron from such a boat vendor.

On the way back to the boathouse, we paddle through the canals of Srinagar. These canals are dirty and smelly, with garbage strewn everywhere. This is not the Venice of India.

Mohamed stopped at one of the homes on the canal. He was excited. He said, Come, come, come, so I climbed to shore. He led me through the side of a garden and into a kitchen. "This is my brother," said Mohamed with a big smile. Then he bid me to sit, sit, sit, and put a blanket over my legs.

The "brother" and his wife served me tea and biscuits. Brother, wife, Mohamed and the boat man had milk tea with salt! They dip bread into their tea. Salt? The brother poured me a small cup to sample. Interesting.

Of course, brother is not brother at all. He is a good friend of Mohamed's. They worked together at the houseboat for 20 years. In recent years, brother resigned to start his own jewelery business, though he still gets calls from the houseboat to take tourists trekking into the Himalayas. Brother and Mohamed both said they love the trekking because they can never get enough of the beauty of the mountains.

I can't tell how old Mohamed is. Maybe in his forties. He owns a small farm in Gulamarg, another town that leads into the Himalayas. He works on the houseboat while his wife and six children tend the farm of rice, corn, cows, and goats.

After tea, we got back in the shakara. We next stopped at a wood carver's. He makes walnut furniture with intricate hand carved details of dragons, flowers, and Indian motifs. There were desks, room dividers, nestled tables, bowls, plates, and other pieces. As well-made as the pieces were, I was not fond of them. I am too practical for the detailed carving. They are high maintenance. How do you clean between the grooves of the carving?

I also think they are somewhat gauche and gaudy, even though I did like a set of nestled tables. That's okay. I was in India and India is a land of contrariness and contrast.

Anyway, we don't have room in our house for more conflicting furniture that draw attention to our lack of themed decor so I bought a mini shakara because the vendor said I was the first customer of the day and it would bring him good luck if I bought something. He kissed the rupees for luck when I paid him. I am a sucker for such sentiments. But really, how can you deny someone luck when it costs you so little?

Here are some houseboats on Dal Lake.

I think this is the houseboat I stayed in.

Yousmarg And A Feast

2007-11-05T15:46:00.000-05:00

One of the most useful things I brought with me is the Indonesian sarong Dawna gave me. It is a cotton tube that has served as my skirt, shawl, pajamas, bed sheet, and sitting mat. Now in the cold nights of Kashmir, when the electricity goes out and the heater dies, it is a blanket next to my skin that keeps me warm.

In Srinagar, the temperature is in the high teens and low twenties during the day. But towards evening, it drops to below 10C. The numbers sound almost perfect for me, but in the mornings and evenings, I am cold. It must be because of the sudden shift from Delhi's dry mid-30C temperature to the damper 10C in the mountains.

Ali and Mohamed outfitted me with a faran (Kashmir's native dress - a sleeved poncho that keeps you warm and covered) for when I am in the houseboat, and a padded coat and running shoes for going out in the mountains.

On my second day, Mohamed and I went to Yousmarg, one of the mountain with an easier hike. It is still two hours away by car. On the way, we were stopped by soldiers for an ID check. I think we must have been speeding, or maybe the crazy way the driver weaved in and out of traffic drew us to the soldiers' attention. Even here in Kashmir, they drive with their horn first and eyes later.

It's illegal to take photographs of soldiers and military buildings in Kashmir. Instead, here's a picture of a herd of sheep sharing the road with our car.

There were villages nestled in the mountain as we went up. The mountainside was farmed. The sculpted fields were rice. The fields of small purple flowers hugging the ground were saffron!

Near the top, a hiking trail leads into a ravine, now dry because the season for high water has passed and the snow has not come yet. As the car made its turn into a parking lot, pony men and pony children swarmed us. Mohamed asked if I wanted to ride a pony into the ravine. These little horses? Can I still be hiking if I ride in? I said no because I can't stand the thought of one of these little horses carrying my full weight. And besides, my flooding...

We walked and saw wooden cottages. They are for shepherds who come up to the mountain with their animals and stay the whole summer. The cottages were vacant. The shepherds have already gone back down to their villages when the nights started to get cold last month.

There are pine trees here. Lots of them. The trees and rocks remind me of Alonguin Park but with shepherds herding their goats.

We got to the bottom of a river bed and rested. I think Mohamed prayed. I sat by the trickling water and breathed in the fresh air. It was beautiful. Mohamed said in summer, white water comes down the river and tourists come down in special boats. White water rafting in the Himalayas? I am sure I am meant to do that soon.

The climb back up the trail was difficult. I was easily out of breath. It's the thinner air up here in the mountain. We settled down to lunch in a gazebo. I was expecting sandwiches. Mohamed brought containers of delicious food in a thermal basket. He put out plates and spoons and served me minced lamb in a tomato coriander sauce and stewed vegetables of lotus root, spinach, carrots and potatoes with rice. I must invest in a Kashmiri cookbook.

On the way down the mountain, we stopped at a mosque in the mountain village. Mohamed wanted 10 minutes to pray inside the mosque. He said, "Wait here for me. If anyone offers you tea, don't accept it. You must not accept tea from strangers." A warning! Doesn't he know I court danger?

I sat on a bench near where he indicated and waited for someone to offer me tea. But alas, no one did. So when Mohamed came out of the mosque, we drove back to the houseboat.

We arrived home after dark. In the morning, I saw four lambs strung up, being skinned.

Ali had told me they were preparing for a wedding feast that night. Now in front of the house, there were at least 20 men cooking over an open fire in the dark. There were many silver pots and platters on the ground waiting to be filled. Ali invited me to join his guests of over 90 for dinner. His nephew and daughter were married in separate weddings on the same day last weekend. The Muslim custom is, after the 3-day feast, the bride stays at her new home for seven days, then returns to her family for a few days. When she comes back to her husband's home, they start their new life together.

So this night, it was a send-off dinner for Ali's nephew's bride. She would return to her father's house after dinner. Ali said before I was shown into dinner, "Do not discuss politics with anyone and don't tell anyone you are going to Afghanistan after Kashmir." Another warning! Ooh, I wanted to talk to people. Not really. I was pretty tired and I was so touched by the generous invitation I didn't want to cause trouble or embarrassment.

I was shown the women's dining room. The women were all seated on the floor around the room against the wall. They had blankets around their legs. They were affluent and well-fed, bedecked in fine clothes and jewelery. I felt rather a pauper in my brown wool shepherd's faran. When I expressed my concern, Ali suggested his wife take me upstairs and wear some of her clothes. Soil the good woman's clothes when I hadn't showered in three days? No. I would rather decline dinner than do that to her. So never mind. I will never see these women again so it matters not what they think of me.

I removed my shoes, entered the dining room, and was seated beside Ali's elderly aunt and mother. Ali's wife brought me a blanket to keep warm. As more women came in, they kissed each other on the cheek. Most of them came up to Ali's mother, bowed before her, kissed her hand, then kissed her cheek.

Then dinner was served. A scarf was put in the centre of each group of four women. A round platter brimming with rice and several types of meat was placed in the middle. The aunt kindly spread out the scarf towards me so I could share the "table".

Despite being in India for a month and eating with my hands, I could never get used to it. I always use a spoon or fork whenever I could. Mohamed came up to tell me I would get my own plate. I was glad of that. As I watched the women eat with their hands, one masticated meat with her right hand to offer to the others. I don't think I can eat food that I've played with, never mind food that someone else has played with.

The woman struggled a bit trying not to touch the food with her left hand as I struggled to cut meat with a spoon. I tried not to touch food with my left hand but there were times I had to hold the chicken bone with my left while I spooned at the meat with my right, and trying not to spill all over the place because we were eating on the floor.

I recognized tandoori chicken, chicken cooked in a coconut cream sauce, lamb cooked in different ways, different kinds of sausages and meatballs. It was all meat. Chinese banquets have nothing on Muslim wedding feasts. I asked Bismar, a 13-year-girl at the table what some of the meat was. She kept saying, Meat. But what kind? All lamb? Meat, she repeated.

Each group was given a basket with water and pop. Inside the basket were also some foil bags. The women stowed away some of the meat for home in these bags. After consuming about 8 oz of meat and more rice than I wanted, I had to stop eating. But more meat kept coming. Once in while, Mohamed came up to see if I was okay. He brought me my own bottle of water. The thing I notice about Mohamed is, he anticipates my needs and notices what I like.

After dinner, we were each given rice pudding in a foil container. I have yet to get used to Indian sweets. They are nauseatingly sweet so I have stopped eating dessert in India. Then I thanked Ali's mother and wife for having me join them for dinner and waddled back to my room.

At bedtime, Mohamed came to turn up the heater in my room and put a hot water bottle in my bed. He reminded me I have to be up at 5 a.m. to go to the boat market. He asked if I needed anything else then bid me goodnight. I could get used to having Mohamed in my life.

Two Gardens And A Mosque

2007-11-04T01:27:00.000-04:00

I hadn't planned to come to Kashmir, just like I never planned to come to India at all. But after changing my flight home and obtaining a flight for Kabul, I had four days to myself. Stay in dreaded Delhi where everyone I know has developed the Delhi cough (the coughing stops the minute you leave Delhi), or leave the city for where I imagine the air is cool and I can reach the sky?

I've always wanted to go to the Himalayas. Something about the balance of mountain, water, and open air that drives me to Algonquin every year now drove me to Kashmir, especially when I found out it was only a one-hour flight to get here and not the mind-spattering 12-hour Indian-train ride I dreaded.

On arriving in Srinagar, I was picked up by Ali, one of the partners of a fleet of houseboats where I stayed. He told me a bit about what his family suffered during the 15-year three-way fight over Kashmir - Pakistan wanted to grab Kashmir, India wanted to keep Kashmir, Kashmir wanted independence. Though the war is now over and everyone, except the Lonely Planet guide book, says life is safe and stable, Indian military presence is still heavy. Soldiers strut their rifles on every road, at every intersection, and even up in the mountains.

I was told that I didn't have enough time to trek into more remote areas of the Himalayas because I was only in Srinagar for two and a half days. It'd take at least two days to get to the first lake in the mountains. I was just as glad. Kashmir is high in altitude. It rises from 1,000 ft to 28,000 ft within four degrees of latitude. So upon getting off the plane, I started to flood like the Ganges in spring. Good thing Kathy told me about her experience in Sanaa so I had come to India with some protection until I could get to a drugstore.

For my stay, I had a guide and a driver. The first afternoon, my guide Mohamed took me to see the Moghul gardens - Shalimar Bagh and Nishat Bagh. Art and culture thrived under the Moghuls. They had a refined sense of balance, symmetry, and engineering knowledge. Even now in autumn, when the grass have gone brown and the fountains are mostly dry, I see the gardens had been designed with lush green, colourful blooms, cascading fountains and water spouts in mind. Water for the fountains are drawn through pipes dug into the mountains. When the Himalayan snow melts in the spring and summer, water gushes down the fountains and drain out to Dal Lake at the bottom of the gardens.

The gardens are full of chinar trees. They are maple trees. Mohamed said they look like maples but they are not. They have round, furry, podded seeds, like mini chestnuts. The older trees are really big, with a larger, lighter and smoother trunk than maple trees.

Everywhere I turn, the Himalayan mountains loom still and large. Mohamed said they look near, but they are far. We must have a different sense of near and far. Surely we are at the bottom of some of the mountains. We drive by houses that seem to have the Himalayans as the backyard.

We next visited a mosque. It is an all-wood structure. It is beautiful and intricately detailed on the outside. Non-muslims and women are not allowed inside.

Are there mosques I can go inside? Mohamed took me to Jama Masjid, a 700-year-old mosque. First, I left my shoes outside the entrance to the mosque, then I put on one of the robes that hung on wall because my arms were exposed, and finally I covered my head with my scarf.

The mosque is rectangular structure with a court yard in the middle. Each side is an open room supported by pillars made of a single, unbroken pine tree trunk. The are over 300 pillars and they all reach floor to high ceiling. The rooms form an open rectangle around the court yard. I felt order, calm and airiness inside the mosque. Mohamed told me all mosques are one open room inside and they are built symmetrically. Ah, hence the sense of order and simplicity.

Still, I am mindful of the controversy over the interpretation of Sharia law and I don't like the condescension of husband towards wife. I asked Mohamed why women must sit at the back in a mosque. He said because Mohamed the Prophet sat at the front of the mosque and women sat in the back, so now men sit at the front and women sit at the back.

That's no reason. A good Muslim doesn't always have to do everything Mohamed the Prophet did. Men are allowed four wives because Mohamed the Prophet had four wives. But now a days, Muslim men don't have four wives. True, Mohamed the guide said, one is more than enough. So why do women still sit in the back of the mosque just because they did in Mohamed the Prophet's time? Because that's the way it is. I guess you have to be Muslim to get it.

Victory

2007-10-31T08:39:00.000-04:00

The march has ended. The marchers have won!

After a day of negotiation between the government and the delegation of Ekta representatives, the proposal for land reform was accepted and signed by the government. This means a land commission will be created, with Ekta on the commission, there will be a fast-track process for court to hear land cases. These will be set up in one month.

There was much celebration by everyone, though others are cautious that promises from the government, like pie crust, can easily be broken, and they are anxious to see real change, with people making their livelihood on their own land.

There are so many people I want to talk to, to get their views on what they realistic think will happen with the government's agreements. But there is no time right now.

Lisa and Shannon are staying on in Delhi in their own apartment to work for Ekta for a few months. Most of the foreigners have gone. I myself have gone.

I arrived in Kashmir this morning to do the Himalayas. I don't know what makes me so drawn to mountains these days but here I am and I can't wait to trek up there tomorrow.

Cooped Up

2007-10-29T05:29:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, the march came into Delhi and marched right by the Gandhi Peace Foundation where I am staying. I sat on the balcony and took more photographs of the march. It took 1 hour and 10 minutes for the march to pass. The march stopped for the night near the centre of Delhi in a dirt field called Ramilla Maidan.

After breakfast this morning, I headed out to Ramilla with several others. Today is the day we march to the Delhi parliament. It's only a 4 km hike so all foreigners made a point of being there.

I arrived shortly after 9 am. The streets were full of armoured police. This does not bode well. TV cameras and reporters thronged the perimeter of the field. The marchers were still enclosed in the field when the march should have started at 8:30. We made our way in through a heavily guarded gate. I found out the police was there to prevent the march from proceeding to parliament. It was a very convenient place to hold 25,000 people.

Rajagopal made some announcements to the effect the police is not our enemy, our struggle is not against them, etc. A delegation of Ekta Parishad executives was dispatched to go talk to the Prime Minister, where he was supposedly holding a meeting with the Minister of Agriculture about the land issues the Janadesh marchers are fight for.

In the last few days, the rallying chant has been a hybrid Hinglish phrase: Jemne or Jail - Land or Jail. The organizers and marchers are prepared to go to jail if that's what it takes to get land.

But while waiting for either the march to start or to be arrested, people milled about, some groups kept dancing while the foreigners suffered under the scorching sun. I started to feel faint so I went behind a tent where some policemen were gathered. I sat on a silver box. Through the iron railing, I saw some of my friends on the other side. Lou, a French marcher who is two months pregnant, said she fainted just a few minutes ago and scraped her ankle. I asked her over to sit in the shade. So she climbed over the railing and down the wall, with the police watching.

I realized I had lost my water and I must have been a sorry sight. I know I felt like vomitting. Lou sat beside me and fanned herself. At least we weren't in the sun. The officers near us started brewing tea. When they finished, they poured out a tray and brought it to their colleagues at the other side of the field. Another officer poured out two cups and offered them to Lou and I. I was ever so grateful. It revived me immediately, which made me think I must've been suffering some kind of sugar low.

I walked around a bit and ended up resting near a gate. I must've dozed off. Anita, one of the march organizers, shook me a bit and gave me some raisins. Then she started talking to a woman on the other side of the gate telling her about the march and its purpose. I heard the woman say, I came down to see the march because I read about it in the newspaper yesterday.

A vendor came by selling disks of peanut brittles. I decided to get some. The woman said, Just a minute. She bought about 15 disks and gave them to me. She said, You are doing such a good thing. Give these to your friends.

I gave half to the marchers near me, then walked back to where the foreigners were and shared the rest with them, telling them about this gift from the woman outside the gate. I think we all felt better because she did this.

Some of the foreigners were concerned they'd be trapped in the field for days, some were just annoyed. Someone started the process of phoning our home embassies. The Canadian, German and French embassies had already been called. The embassies were told we had willingly walked in, but now we aren't allowed to leave.

I am not sure about that. It's difficult to leave because the marchers had crowded the exit gate, and the only other gate available was locked. The police certainly won't let the march continue on Delhi's streets. But individuals, especially foreigners, might be able to leave the field. I saw some people go through a gap in the railing with the police watching. I wanted to leave. I really had to get my flights sorted out. So I went to that gap in the railing and asked the officer leaning against the wall if he could move aside. He did and I left the march.

Now that I've sorted out my flights, I will go back to the march to see what is happening.

Decadence

2007-10-28T01:28:00.001-04:00

I'd make a lousy journalist. I have not provided much details on the Janadesh march. I mean, I don't march everyday and I don't bother to find out details.

Today, I am trying to decide if I am plugged up or too loose. So I am not marching this morning while I wait for my stomach to go one way or the other.

The march is going into Delhi today. The final 4 km will be tomorrow morning, when the march goes into the Delhi Parliament. Organizers are expecting good news from the government. The hope is, the Prime Minister will announce the formation of a land commission, with the PM as chair, and Ekta Parishad as part of the commission.

Police security has been tight as we near Delhi. The mood is optimistic. We'll see what actually goes down tomorrow.

So I went to The Big Chill for lunch yesterday. Before this excursion, I picked up the Hindustan Times and read on the front page that 62% of Indian women in urban areas are obese because they snack on junk food before dinner. Studies show that in Delhi, 100% of women snack on noodles, chips, biscuits and other high carb foods before dinner. Woes of the West has already hit India.

I carried India's obesity statistics with me as I enter The Big Chill. It is a western restaurant for the young and trendy. Nothing fancy. Olive Garden like, if you know what I mean, but more run down as everything seems to be in India. The restaurant is manned by a Chinese staff. I am sure that was Cantonese-Hindi I was overhearing.

You know, to sink your teeth into something familiar and firm, where the flavours of food seek out your tastebuds to massage them instead of destroy them, is kind of like having your cheeks stroked and lips kissed. I shared a pear and blue cheese salad, with real red leaf lettuce. Apparently, lettuce is hard to find in India. I certainly have not seen it yet in markets.

Then I had chicken stuffed ravioli in a tomato cream sauce. Somehow, this restaurant manages to find and use the freshest ingredients, and blend them together just so. My appetite has shrunk for sure though my jeans still fit the same. But I couldn't resist having a scoop of Columbian mocha ice cream for dessert. I probably consumed more calories in that one meal than I have in the last week. And I didn't care about obesity in India or Canada at that moment.

I tried to decide whether the food was actually well-prepared and excellent, or if I was just starved for non-Indian food. It doesn't matter. It was a creature comfort experience that bonded the four of us at the table the way food is meant to do.

In Delhi Again

2007-10-27T00:48:00.000-04:00

The march is 30 km from Delhi. The foreigners are now based in Delhi for the remainder of the march. Despite the short distance, the drive into Delhi takes 1 1/2 hours because of the traffic. The march organizers and the police are worried what will happen as the march enters Delhi tomorrow. The marchers usually take up one side of the highway where traffic is not allowed to enter. Police escort has been more prominent since the traffic accident.

Yesterday, an old man died of a heart on the march. The organizers wanted to send him home, but he refused. He said the march for him is do or die. If he goes home, he will die at home, he would rather die on the march so he could serve out his purpose.

In this last leg of the march, more foreigners have joined us. Hotel changes and car rides have become chaotic. Late arrivals, usually the younger people in the early twenties, don't get a bed. They park themselves on the terrace, hallway, or wherever they can find a spot. The foreigners are resigned to the Indian way of doing things and often remind each other not to impose our Western ideas of efficiency and order in ths country.

The good thing, I suppose, is people think I am 35. And when I start talking about my 17-year-old son, they take a second look and say, What do you mean? Then I tell them I am 51. They are taken aback. One of the translators said, We knew there was something different about you. We were talking last night and we decided of all the foreigners we love you the most because we have the most respect for you. I said, It's because you are good boys and you respect your mothers. He said, Maybe that's so, but you also treat us well, not like we are servants. Some of the other foreigners treat us like servants and make us carry their things.

I am aghast at that, though I have seen it as well. These boys speak English, they have a college education. One of them is finishing his PHD. One boy's father is a senior scientist, another's is a doctor. They all come from educated families. They are always kind to me and tell me they are happy to help, even at the hotel, in the street, when we are not on the march, because "you are our guest", they say. I only hope Nic is as gracious as they are and I hate the idea people treat him like a servant when he tries to help. So despite the chaos and heat of India, I am glad I have not betrayed my values.

I like walking from the back of the march to the front. As I pass by each group, some of them invite me to dance and I usually join in. They show me the steps and I manage to mimic the simple ones, though I feel like I have three left feet. I am especially fond of the transvestite dancers. They are hermaphrodites, apparently a large community in India. Except they are referred to as genderless. They don't fit in main stream society so they live with their own kind.

In the process of dancing with them, I have learned a few nifty steps. I am hearing the different kinds of country music on the march. Some of them sound kind of country and western, and even...what is that music in Oh Brother Where Art Thou? I am forgetting some English words, but I am sure I have not picked up much Hindi.

I am taking today off again as I am bourgeois at core. I want to rest my feet and to sort out my flight to Afghanistan and return to Canada. Some of the French women returned to Delhi yesterday. When I saw them at night, they were armed with purchases for home. They told me about going to The Big Chill, where they ate pasta with pesto and grilled chicken. They had fresh salad, washed in purified water. They had ice cream. I look forward to going to The Big Chill for lunch today.

Meeting Wth The Minister

2007-10-27T00:36:00.000-04:00

The next day on the march, we stopped at a field where India's Minister of Agriculture was expected to join the marchers and make an announcement. A stage was set up where there was shade and all the foreigners were asked to sit on the stage. I thought it was because that's the only place with shade so the march organizers gave that spot to the wimpy foreigners.

There was much dancing on the stage. It was a cultural celebration by all the different tribes on the march. Two hours later, each group of foreigners were asked to say something to the marchers. I didn't know I was expected to speak. So minutes before we were to speak, I thought hard and fast about what to say. In the end, I managed to greet the marchers by telling them after we leave the marcher, we'll keep them in our thoughts and prayers. It was the first time I had spoken to a crowd of 25,000 and had my words translated.

The Minister was late of course. He arrived at 6 pm, amidst throngs of media. We had been waiting since 2 pm. The Minister delivered his message. He's with the marchers. Of course. He wants to march with them if he could. Yes, yes. He appreciates the non-violent and Gandhian way of the marchers. Hear, hear. Yes, the government will have a new land rehabilitation policy. Urr, okay. Yes, the government will strike a land management program but a land survey has to be done first and it will take a long time. Well, sure. I heard nothing concrete. There was no timeline, no announcement of who will form the land commission, no agreement that the marchers will have land, and whether there will be land redistribution at all.

The next day, the march organizers said it was a good meeting. India has a coalition government. The Agriculture Minister does not belong to the ruling Congress Party. So it was good to have the minister announce publicly he's on side. He doesn't have the authority to do much anyway. One down and more to go. Now to work on the Prime Minister.

Scandalous

2007-10-26T11:11:00.000-04:00

We spent the last four nights in a town called Palwal. At night, most foreigners were driven back to the hotel, but some slept out in the field with the marchers. This town has a reputation for rogue men who actually harm women.

Two French women slept with the Tamil group they had been travelling with. While asleep, some local men came near them and started saying things like, Which one will you take? I can take that one faster than you. etc.

The Tamil men heard this talk and got worried. They did not raise a fist when their own marchers were killed in the traffic accident. They were unlikely to come to the girls' rescue if they were attacked in their sleep. So these men stayed awake all night, keeping watching over the girls, and telling the local men to go away.

In the morning, the Tamil men asked the French girls to sleep in the hotel with other foreigners from now on as they would like to get some sleep too. So now women are asked not to sleep on the road now that we are so close to Delhi. Sounds like it's always the suburban young who make trouble everywhere.

In the town of Palwal, we too had our own incidents. I was standing in front of the hotel with three others. One French man was leaving the march as his time was up. We were standing with him to wait for the car. Francoise, a 55-year-old women wanted to exchange e-mail addresses with the French man. Before we knew what was happening, a crowd of over 30 gathered around us. One local man thrust out his notepad, hoping Francoise would put her e-mail address in it. When she ignored him, he marched through the foreigners in the most brusque way, bumping me in the arm.

The younger boys in the crowd started putting out their hands to touch us. Another local man pushed his friend into Francoise, making her fall back into me. The hotel manager came out and sent us back into the laneway of the hotel.

A while later, Francoise headed out with others in an attempt to get some dinner. A car drove up to her fast and stopped just short of hitting her. The people around thought it was funny and laughed. I joined them at that moment. But we were told by others the restaurant we wanted was now closed as it was past 9 pm.

That's when our translators came along, returning from dinner. One said to me, It's dark now, what are you doing out? I said, Looking for dinner. He said, You shouldn't be out. Do you see other women on the street? The men harass them so they don't come out. You are a foreigner, they will bother you more.

So we all retreated into the hotel and had dinner on their rooftop restaurant. Surprisingly, the food was quite good, though each dishes still indistinguishable to me as they taste like various blends and strengths of curry with mystery vegetables and starch.

The next night, we headed out to the restaurant again. I saw a man behind the counter throwing chopped vegetables in a pan and frying that up with handfuls of white strings he also threw in. Even though I had no idea what was being made, I said to our guide, I want that for dinner. I figured as long as it's not saucy curry with potato, I want it. Wouldn't you know they brought me a plate of chow mein. It was so good! So the first time I had an opportunity to eat non-curry, I had Chinese food.

On The Road Again

2007-10-21T10:54:00.000-04:00

I have conquered Delhi.

I walked behind the hostel where I was staying, crossed over a railway bridge and found an internet cafe. Then I negotiated a rickshaw to take me to Connaught Place, the main shopping area in Delhi. I found the clothing shop everyone told me about, got overwhelmed by the choices, came out screaming, and negotiated with another rickshaw to take me back to the hostel. I have my bearings in Delhi now and the crowds and pollution suddenly seem less offensive.

Today, I rejoined the march. It was a short walk as we arrived at the march after 11 a.m. For lunch, we stopped at a school in a small village. Carole, a delightful French marcher, and I walked down a road towards what looked like a temple. Before we knew it, a swarm of children followed us, calling out and I think, asking for money. After some photographs of the dome-temple structure, we headed back to our lunch camp.

That's when a man joined the children in following us. He gestured for us to take a turn away from where we were going. He said something like, No margin. Not understanding what he meant, we declined and said goodbye.

Then we saw the Buddhists coming toward us. They said they were looking for the market. So I said to Carole, Let's follow them. If we get into trouble, at least they will pray with us. It turned out one of the monks spoke Hindi. The swarm of children grew larger now as we went through narrow lanes into the village.

Before long, we saw a large temple ruin rivaling any English castle ruin. It reminded me of a scene in one of the Indiana Jones movies. I took more photos as we walked through the temple grounds. When the Buddhists got to the end of the temple, they said, No market here. So we went back down where we came to return to camp.

In evening, foreigners on the march were invited to the mayor's house for tea. We were served lemon pop, tea, coke, cookies, and chips. The fare was like a children's party though it was 7 p.m.

But the visit was charming. Despite the run down roads outside, inside the iron gate and concrete walls of the mayor's home was a manicured lawn and palm trees. The garden grounds were well swept, with no dust anywhere. Tables were set for us on the lawn.

The mayor also invited us to the back of her garden to see her cows and their cow-dung electricity converter. They take dung from their cows, feed it into a well, churn with water, and a cistern type structure converts the dung into gas, which is fed through a tube to supply their kitchen with cooking gas. They said their food even tastes better cooking with this gas.

Casualties

2007-10-19T12:00:00.000-04:00

Great sadness today. Three marchers were killed in a traffic accident this morning before the march started.

The accident happened just a few minutes before our car dropped us off at the start point for the day. News quickly spread about a transport truck backing into sleeping marchers on the road. Apparently, the truck driver was drunk. He ran into a bus and veered to the left. To avoid falling into a ditch, he backed up and ran over the median into sleeping marchers.

We waited for the police and ambulance to arrive. Some people gestured about 100 feet away to where a crowd was gathered. They said the bodies were still on the ground. I did not have the stomach to go see.

After waiting a while, I noticed Lisa was sitting on the ground. She had her prayer beads in her hand. I joined her and folded my hands to say a prayer for the dead. But if you are not Indian, it's hard to do anything in India without drawing a crowd around you. After about 15 minutes, I got up to look for the Buddhist priests. I hoped they were in prayer and I wanted to join them.

But walking through the crowd, I noticed the marchers were all seated on the ground. This is what we've been instructed to do prior to the march. If there is trouble of any kind, we need to sit on the ground as a non-violent practice. Since I came to march with these people, I decided to sit with them.

Soon, one of the march organizers came around to give me an update. It was confirmed that three people died, four people hurt seriously including a child, 13 others had minor injuries. As soon as the accident took place, local villagers dragged the driver out of his truck and beat him up. Apparently, this is a common practice. The driver is now hospitalized.

But the amazing thing was, none of the marchers raised a fist. So committed are they to the non-violent principle, they sat on the ground when faced with anger and death. Later, I found a woman sitting with her group. She was crying. The organizer told me three of her sons were hurt in the accident. Here was a mother whose sons were hurt. Yet, she would not betray her non-violence training.

I saw another organizer, a man, weeping, as he was helped to sit on the curb. I went up and asked, "Do you have family in the accident?"

He said, "Yes, all 25,000 of these people are my family, and three of them just died."

I don't know what happened, but the next thing I knew, we were both weeping. After a while, I said, "I am glad I am sitting here with you."

He honoured me with a bow.

Then a young man jumped through the barricades into the sitting crowd. The seated marchers raised their sticks. The man beside me jumped up and ran to the people with the sticks to prevent them from reacting with violence.

As I watched from the curb, Lisa called me from behind. She was nestled with some women marchers and hold up a blanket with them for shade. They gestured me over and made room for me. As we struggled to keep the shade up, another woman came and built a tripod behind us so we could put the blanket over it to shade us.

It was a very emotional day for all. One of the march organizers told me they had negotiated with the government and the families of the dead and injured will receive some compensation: 4 lakhs for each person who died, 2 lakhs for the seriously injured. That's about $10,000 Cad for each death, and $5,000 for each seriously injured, who could be crippled for life. Where our loved ones are concerned, how often have we said, I wouldn't exchange you for a million dollars?

That was one of the cautions I received from someone since arriving in India: be careful, because human life has little value in India.

When the march started in the afternoon, it was a sombre one. There was no tribal dance to lead off. Jill and Raja stayed closer together than I have ever seen them through out the march.

In the late afternoon, our car came. We had arranged to return to Delhi for a break and to sort out some personal affairs. So I am back in Delhi for the next two nights.

In Search Of Internet Access

2007-10-17T07:10:00.000-04:00

Indeed, there is much to tell and I only write about what's top of mind when I find internet access.

There was some good news for the marcher today. Today's newspapers carried a story of Rajaropal's visit Sonia Gandhi in Delhi. The march's organizers say it's now public knowledge that Sonia Gandhi has promised to land reform policies. One of the men who talked to me yesterday approached me again today to tell me some of my comments are in several of today's newspapers. I remember now I did give another interview while he was talking to us.

I don't know about all these interviews. I can't tell who's media and who's just taking pictures because they happen to have a camera. I talk to so many people I don't know if I'm just chatting or giving an interview. I hope whatever is printed or broadcast does not make me say things that will harm the march's cause.

Today, I am covered in tar. I sat in some at lunch and the more I try to wipe the stuff from my pants, the more the stuff spreads all over my clothes. I splurged and bought a new outfit from a vendor.

The hotel we're staying at, for five nights at that, is one of the worst places I've ever had to spend time in. Our room is too cramped for three. There are three mats on the floor for sleeping and a tiny squatter washroom. There is no walking room. After a long march the first night, Lisa and Shannon began bathing and doing their laundry. There was no room for me to even stand in the now steamy room. I sat in the garage to cool down. There, I met some new foreign arrivals for the march. Encouraged by their example, I obtained my own room.

So that's how I got in some much needed alone time. But last night, one of the French women asked if she could share my room. She arrived at the hotel the first night late and found no room assigned to her. So she bunked with two men on the march. The hotel staff found out about it the second night and made a fuss. We don't know whether it's hotel policy or village morality that prohibits her from sharing a room with the men. Regardless, she's now bunking with me.

I think I am getting into a rhythm for the march. The trick is to walk by myself and talk to whoever is nearby. I dare say I am even enjoying the march, though the sun is still angry and blistery.

Okay, my adventure in town.

Yesterday afternoon, the march camped right beside the hotel. Having decided I would not eat the lunch the marchers provided, I headed into town in search of a cyber cafe. One of the translators had been the night before and told me of a cafe that had five computers and it would cost about 5 Rupees to go the 2 km by rickshaw. So I flagged down a rickshaw and went. The driver confirmed it would cost 5 Rupees to get to the cyber cafe. A few minutes later, he stopped a friend on the road and asked me to get into the other rickshaw.

This new driver took me through several busy markets and traffic jams. Each time I asked him where he was going and to express I think he's gone too far, he say, Okay, okay. Finally, he stopped beside a vendor and gestured for me to ask for the location of a cyber cafe. The vendor told us where there is one and gave the driver the address. When I got there, I had to go to several shops to ask which was the cyber cafe. Then I paid the rickshaw driver.

I thought I would be generous and offer him 10 Rupees. He balked and demanded 50. I complained about him not knowing where he was going and taking me way out of the way, though I knew he didn't understand me. A boy came up and they conferred. The boy turned to me and said, 200 Rupees. They started demanding 200. It was my turn to balk and complain some more, gesturing how the driver took me from another rickshaw without knowing where the cyber cafe was. I also started to feel panicky, as if they could hurt me if they really wanted to, and no one knew where I was. I thrust the 10 Rupees out again and walked away. The poor man looked so defeated. He called out, Okay 30 Rupees. I refused. So he went his way and I went mine.

Once inside the cyber cafe, I realized I had no idea where I was and I didn't know the name of the hotel where I was staying. Now panic really set in. I took a deep breath and made a plan. I needed to finish at the cyber cafe before dark, and while there was a young customer in the cafe who spoke spattering English, I needed him to set me up to go home before he left the cafe. I remembered I had gone to a Sikh temple the night before and took photographs. The temple is a one-minute walk from the hotel. So I whipped out my camera and showed the young man and cafe owner photographs of the temple. They recognized it immediately and wrote the name of it in Sanscrit for me. The cafe owner even ventured to write the street name the temple sits on.

When I finished at the internet cafe, I flagged down another rickshaw and showed him the writing on my piece of paper. The driver recognized it and said, 20 Rupees. That's how I made it home.

That adventure made me feel alive and confident. I think I court danger.

Snippets

2007-10-16T08:22:00.000-04:00

A translator told me that if an Indian has a car and a horn, he doesn't feel alive unless he's driving fast and honking his horn.

I gave an interview to a TV station yesterday and talked about my views on the march. Today, several people told me in broken English they liked the strong comments I made. I wasn't sure what they were talking about and wondered how they knew I did an interview. Later, Jill told me the TV station aired our interview again and again over a 12-hour period. Jill speaks Hindi so her interview was broadcast as is. But they dubbed me so that Hindi came out of my mouth and even non-English speakers understood what I supposedly said.

Raja went to Delhi yesterday to meet Sonia Ghandi. The results were favourable. She's promised to talk to the prime minister when he gets back from somewhere to start a Land Reform Commission for the marchers.

We marched today and did a two-hour meditation on the road. The Buddhist monks lead the meditation. The purpose was to send wisdom to the Indian Parliament so they will make favourable decisions about the marchers' demands. Two hours in the hot sun. I guess parliament needed a lot of wisdom.

East Versus West

2007-10-16T08:02:00.000-04:00

The next day, foreigners gathered for a pre-march meeting with two of the French doctors. The doctors are concerned about the lack of treatment for marchers as they fall ill. We were assigned teams to interview, to find out how many people are sick on each team of 1,000, and what kind of illness people are suffering from.

Reports gathered at the end of the day suggest most people are suffering from dehydration, stomach pains, and leg pains. Some cases are more severe. The French doctors want medical intervention. The organizers and Indian doctors are less willing.

One of the preventions prescribed was to have marchers drink a sugar and salt water mixture at the beginning of the day. One of the team leaders pointed out that 23% of Indians over age 40 are diabetic so he was reluctant to give sugar to his team. Jill cautioned that most of the marchers are malnourished and underweight, so whatever medication they are given must be halved in dosage. The other concern is the Indians practise Ayurvedic medicine. Marchers have their own ways of treating illness. It's not like dehydration, diarrhea and leg pains are foreign to them. But treatment takes time.

The Indian doctor revealed that the western medicines that the French doctors are recommending have already been ordered. They are for extreme cases of illness. But they have been delayed for four days because the treasurer's father passed away.

Everyone is in agreement the main problem with the march right now is the cold nights. Despite the heat during the day, it gets near freezing at night. The marchers sleep in the field with thin blankets. A shipment of 8,000 blanket came in a few days ago, but that's barely enough for 25,000 people. They are expecting another shipment soon. If the marchers can keep warm at night, they will not get sick as readily.

All in all, a fairly taxing day for everyone as we learn about different cultural approaches to medicine, and try not to offend anyone.

Adventures

2007-10-16T07:01:00.000-04:00

After two days off, I rejoined the march on its 15th day. Already, we've ventured into Mathura, the birthplace of Krishna.

This first day back was an incredible one. At one of the breaks, I sat with the Buddhist priests who lead the march everyday. The head priest, Junsei, told me he was in Edmonton last year to talk about what he witnessed in Chechnya while he lived in Russia. The Muslim organization that invited him to Edmonton also took him around to visit some of Edmonton's surrounding communities. One of Junsei's fond memories was of the Doukhabour community. These were Russians who rejected orthodox teachings of the Bible and fled to Canada for religious freedom.

Junsei said, "Did you know that Tolstoy helped bring the Doukabours to Canada?"

Not only did I know that. I also know of the Canadian, James Mavour, that Tolstoy worked with to bring the Doukabours to Canada. So I told him how James Mavour was Douglas' great grandfather, that there is a photograph of Mavour and Tolstoy sitting in front of a bureau, and that this bureau is now in our home.

Junsei smiled and raised his hands. He said, "Ah, karma."

That was pretty neat.

For the rest of the day, I marched with a French family, Neva, Jackie and Sunam. Neva and Jackie are artists working an installation project in Delhi of the march. Sunam is their 10-year-old son. When we stopped for the day, Neva and I went up to the women preparing lunch and asked if we could cook with them. They made room for us and we made puri with them. I mimicked the men who mixed giant pans of flour (they are cooking for 1,000), water, and oil, and kneaded the mixture into dough. They showed me how to break off pieces for rolling. The women showed me how to roll the pieces into flat pancakes and toss them to a man at the centre of the circle doing the deep frying.

These marchers are India's poorest. Yet they were generous and hearty. One woman joked about exchanging clothes with me. I would have too if I had brought more than one change of clothes with me. They tried to give me more food than I could stomach. I accepted one tablespoon of potato curry, one tablespoon of a sweet rice mixture, and one puri. I am finding the food much too starchy, salty, and greasy, and can only manage a little bit.

The marchers are insulted I won't eat more. They eat twice a day. They have a small breakfast. The afternoon meal is their main meal so they eat big platefuls. Because of my sore feet and the heat, I expressed to the march organizers my concern for the marchers' single meal. They tell me the marchers have it good. They are used to much harsher conditions when they are at work. They say that on the march, the marchers eat everyday, which is more than what they get at home.

The 25,000 marchers represent over 350 million landless and displaced people in India. Jill says this is a low estimate. The landless are bonded labourors. Because they have no land, no asset, no equity of any kind, they are unable to borrow money from the bank. If they get into trouble and need money, they go to moneylenders or landowners who charge 125% interest and more. In short, if you have no land and you go into debt, you effectively become a slave for life trying to pay off your debt.

On an earlier walk, one woman told me she is a construction labouror. She chips pebbles from rocks, then carries them on her head to the construction site. She works 10 to 5 and is paid 10 rupees a day. That's 25 cents a day. If they complain to the police, the police throw them in jail for a few hours. These workers have no one on their side.

The displaced landless are forest dwellers. They have lived in the forest for generations and harvest food and medicine for home use and to sell. The government passed a forest protection act that called the forest dwellers encroachers. The forest dwellers maintain they are not encroachers, they are part of the forest and have been for centuries.

There are laws in conflict, and there in straight sell out. Once the government drives the forest dwellers out, they clear the forest and sell the land to large corporations in the name of economic advancement. There is lots of money to be made for sure, but the displaced are not benefitting from it.

The march wants the government to pass laws that give land back to the landless and set up conditions that will help these people become self-sufficient. They want access to natural resources - water, forest, and land, to be self-sustaining. The marchers don't want to move into the city. If they do, they will become beggars and live in garbage slums.

Jill's husband, Raja, and his associates are apparently the current wave of the Ghandi movement. Mahatma started the movement by demonstrating that political ends can be achieved through non-violent means and secured independence for India. The next step in this process is to give land back to the people.

There is much to learn here. I pick up bits of information from everyone I meet. On this march, I have met some of the most intelligent people anywhere. These are educated Indians who have dedicated their lives to the landless cause. They are articulate in expressing their political position, clear in outlining for me the history of the issues, and spiritual when they tell me no one can predict how the struggle will end because it is an organic process and change takes time, a long time.

At the end of the day, Neva, Jackie, Sunam, and I were so far away from our group that we were unable to get car rides back to the hotel. This is Neva and Jackie's 10th time in India so they speak some Hindi. We decided to hitch a ride back to our decrepit hotel. We manage two rides in transport trucks. In both cases, the drivers were delighted to pick us up, telling us about their relatives in North America and Europe. In both cases, they wanted us to take photographs of them as souvenirs. I obliged willingly.

Driving In India

2007-10-13T01:10:00.000-04:00

It's Saturday in Agra. I am taking the day off again to try to heal my feet and prevent plantar fasciitis from setting in with full force. This morning, Shannon and Lisa stayed in bed. There is a bug going around, but I am sure they are also suffering from exhaustion and heat.

The march of 25,000 is organized into teams of 1,000. Each of the 25 teams have a team leader, with 10 group leaders reporting to him. Each group leader is responsible for 100 people, make sure they keep pace, see to their needs, etc. For each team of 1,000, there is an accompanying water truck, supplies truck, and a medical truck.

We are now well into the second week of the march. The marchers have been going non-stop, unlike the foreign guests who take time off every few days. Yesterday, some of the marchers fainted, no doubt from exhaustion and heat too. One of the foreign guests is a doctor. She said there is a bout of pneumonia going through the march.

I am trying my darnest not to get sick. I've already had a 24-hour head cold. I will give the march my time and energy, but not my health.

At least most of the marchers are doing fine. I was happy to see some of them at the Taj Mahal yesterday. They too wanted to take advantage of their current proximity to their country's world wonder. We greeted each other and said "Jai jagat" (victory to the world).

The most striking thing about India so far is the bustling traffic chaos, noise, and crumbling streetscape. India drives on the left side of the road. Steering wheels are on the right side of the car. Most of the streets are paved dirt roads that don't have sidewalks. Men are often barefoot and spit on the ground. Pedestrians, cows, boars, goats, monkeys, bicycles, auto-rickshaws, cars, trucks, and buses all vie for space to move. I have yet to see a real accident.

Last night, I got lost and stumbled onto a parade. The street was not closed for the festival. Floats and marching bands lined the jam-packed street, jostling for room with the regular denizens of the street. I have never seen so many brightly coloured floats, saris, and people meld into visual noise and become indistinguishable to the eye.

Motorcyclists don't wear helmets. You often see three or four people astride a motorbike built for two. The riders are not young hooligans. They are grandmothers in saris, toddlers barely able to walk, men and women needing to get from one place to another.

Drivers use their horns for communication, such as when they want to pass, to say get out of the way, to say hello. Vans and trucks all have "Horn Please" or "Blow Horn" on the back. They want you to blow your horn. Not just little polite anglo beeps, but long loud blasts that go from one end of the street to the other that announce I am bigger than you are. The poor pedestrian is at the lowest peck of what order there is.

Most storeowners have their own electricity generator. There is churning and grinding wherever you go. I think the cars must run on diesel. If not, why the black smoke all the time?

Because the roads are little more than dirt roads, dust fly everywhere. At night, you can see the haze of dust in headlights of cars. I wonder if India keeps statistics on the prevalence of lung disease now versus 30 years ago. The day temperature is easily 40C and the cool months apparently have started. Indeed, heat and dust everywhere.

I am told variously that India expanded so fast in the last 30 years, people haven't learn city ways so they bring their farm ways onto city streets. That is, traffic rules exist and roads are marked, but people don't pay attention to them. A street might be marked with three lanes, but often you see seven cars racing down the street at the same time, passing each other on the right and left and into the oncoming traffic. When stopped at a red light, clusters of motorcycles swarm openings like buzzing gnats, eager to ready to shoot off in any direction.

My translator told me the heart of India, the India that he loves, is up north, near the Himalayas. He's not fond of the chaos, noise and decrepitude of his cities and villages either. One of the foreign guests told me she lived in India the first time in 1974. The population then was 400 million. It is now almost 1.2 billion.

The younger foreigners tells me they love the vibrancy and freneticism of India. I have yet to see its beauty.

Breakthrough

2007-10-12T21:36:00.000-04:00

Where do I begin? It is absolutely sensory overload here. Good thing Sandra told me not to bail in the first week.

The most frustrating thing so far has been spotty internet access. When I do find an internet cafe, it's dial up service on an old computer with sticky keys that give you extra letters when you type, or the keyboard is missing letters. How frustrating it is then when I make my way to the end of a post only to lose it because of a power outage, apparently a common thing in India. Other times, the internet is simply down, or I get timed out from my e-mail account because it's taken me so long to copy-edit an e-mail.

I had been to the internet cafe of one computer in Dholpur so often that the owner and I have a relationship. I had decided not to bring makeup on the march. But now that I am so much darker, I feel I look faded without makeup. With hand gestures and English words, I communicated to the internet cafe owner I sought eyeliner - black, eyes, women. He pointed me to the purchase of some and I wore it when I met him again in the evening. He pointed at his eyes to indicate he noticed my makeup. We are now buddies. While Lisa and Shannon used the computer, he invited me into his home to meet his wife and children.

So behind the crumbling storefront of the one-computer internet cafe, I walked through rubbles and mud to the back of the shop where a rectangular structure stood. Before me was a spanking new Hindu temple with a marble floor. The three icons of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva in glittering costume were encased behind a glass wall, taking up half of the temple.

Trekking through ditches and cow dung, I went through an old door way to a court yard. He pointed at various rooms to indicate where members of his household lived. Then he took me through a dark passage of sewage and falling walls. At the end was a brand new marble staircase. We went up that to see a large, newly renovated apartment of marble flooring and oak cabinets. I saw a large, flat-screen TV and a couch. And were those a washer and dryer? I don't know.

I am in Agra now, the 11th day of the march. Lisa, Shannon and I joined the march on its 6th day in Dholpur. That first afternoon, we walked for two hours and met up with Jill and her husband at the end. Rajagopal, Jill's husband, is a much-loved social activist here. The marchers walk by him, bow with folded hands and say "Namaste" (hello), and they touch his feet, a gesture of the greatest honour.

He is an articulate, charismatic man. It's obvious that the marchers and village heads hold him in highest esteem. Through out the march, people meet us with water, food, and garlands of marigold. Some areas have built stages for Raja and Jill, where they receive honours and make speeches.

They give all the foreign guests on the march translators and drivers. The translators are adorable young men between 17 and 20. They are in college in Delhi and through a screening process were selected for the job.

At any one time, there are about 50 foreign guests who take part in the march for a few days. Most of them are from Germany and France, whose organizations support Ekta Parishad, the people that organized the march. There were seven Canadians marching. We are independent marchers, all here because we know Jill. Three Canadians left yesterday to resume their tour of India.

I have enjoyed meeting the French very much. They are easy-going and fun. Andre, a retired sales manager, introduced me to bidi last night. That's a rolled up leaf you smoke, supposedly not as harmful as real cigarettes, but I think it's a tobacco leaf.

At night, the marchers camp on the ground. Theirs is like a refugee camp. But foreigners are driven to hotels, such as they are. We stay at the hotel for three to four nights and each morning, we are driven to where we stopped the night before to rejoin the march in progress. The marchers are usually happy to see us and thank us for marching, though a few did point out the inequity of them sleeping on the ground. The hotels are basic, with bugs, smells, cracked walls everywhere. If they were apartments in Toronto, they would be condemned. But Lisa and Shannon, who have travelled much in developing countries, tell me they are very good hotels.

Through our translator, I have talked with some of the marchers. I would like to talk to them more, but I need to be in the mood and have a translator by me at the same time. It's hard not to be discouraged and feel foul when I hear the marchers' stories, yet they are the ones living out their stories.

Last night, there was a large meeting at the camp. They were expecting the Minister of Urban Development to confirm his support for the marchers. But he cancelled in the afternoon. Apparently, the marchers are getting discouraged. It's cold out in the field at night and the minister was a no-show. So far, 100 people have left the march of 25,000. Today, they sent 300 back to Delhi to participate in a sit-in and to wait for the arrival of the marchers. They are also trying to buy 25,000 blankets for the marchers to keep them warmer at night.

This march is highly organized. I can't imagine a gathering of 25,000 for 30 days in Toronto and not have chaos and violence erupt. The most impressive thing is, there are men, women and children marching. These are India's poor and landless. They recognize that this long march is just one of many steps towards better livelihood, and that at the end of the march, they could walk away with nothing. Still, they have organized themselves.

They ask for water, forest, and land (jamin, jungal, jal) so they can improve their likelihood of having independent, self-sustaining lives using nature's resources. Many of them are indentured labourers, with no right to property ownership. They don't want to move to the city. If they do, they become beggars living in garbage slums for sure.

I will try to relay some of the marchers stories in later posts.

Uh oh. I think I'm beginning to like Indian music, that grating and prolonged shrill and whine of the female voice.

Madness

2007-10-07T09:51:00.000-04:00

Delhi is intense, extreme and Frenetic. On the march now. Internet slow, comuter missing letter after "o".

Entry

2007-10-04T17:13:00.000-04:00

It's almost 3 am, October 5, in Delhi. We landed at midnight. The flight here was surprisingly and thankfully uneventful. I don't think I've slept since I left Toronto, because I remember watching five movies and two shorts. I really like Bollywood movies now.

Between the viewings, there was much eating. Jet Airways employs the most beautiful Indian women I have ever seen. Every single one of the flight attendants could be models.

I am travelling with Lisa and Shannon, two women in their late twenties. Lisa's friend Deep picked us up at the Delhi airport and we're staying at his apartment tonight. On the ride here, I kept asking, Is this typical of the Delhi night air or is there a mist tonight? It is 29C out and the air is thick and damp, the smell of sulfur is heavy. Deep said it's the smog, which doesn't lift at night.

Deep was in Toronto for nine months last year and left his laptop and some clothes with his cousin. Already, we tried to hatch a plan where his cousin would meet Douglas at the airport with a small suitcase of clothes and his laptop, Douglas brings the suitcase to Afghanistan, and when I visit Douglas in November, I bring the suitcase to Deep when I come back to Delhi to catch the flight home. All that had to be executed within three hours before Douglas got on his plane. But Douglas wasn't home when I phoned and Deep's cousin is out of town. No go this time. Such is the life of travellers.

We drove through different neighbourhoods to get to Deep's apartment. At various spots, he said, Take a deep breath here, it's cleaner air. I'm not sure I felt the difference. Deep is born and bred in Delhi. His apartment is on the third floor of a building. His parents live on the main floor. He said he makes a point of leaving Delhi every month or so to get away from the pollution and chaos.

What a contrast to the weekend I just had at Algonquin Park with the open air, expansive water, tall trees, and rustling critters, where at night, we wore wool hats, jackets and gloves around the campfire.

Until three years ago, Delhi didn't have a subway system. The city is now building one. Even at night, you see construction all over the place. But I am sure some of the sites are not under construction. They may just be derelict buildings. Sitting on his rooftop, we stare up at the sky and see a shooting star. Deep said he's never seen one from his rooftop. Maybe it's a good sign for us.

Tomorrow, we find the Ghandhi Peace Foundation, get more Rupees, water, a cell phone, and an Indian outfit.

Here I Go

2007-10-03T16:41:00.000-04:00

Thank you for your lovely e-mails and good wishes. Wow. All this support and affection and I am still here. I guess I better get on that plane and go to India for real now.

There's been much last minute preparation to tend to.

- Passport. Check.
- India visa. Check.
- Afghanistan visa. Check.
- Photocopies of the above. Check.
- Plane ticket. Check.
- Rupees. Check.
- List of phone numbers and e-mails. Check.
- List of contacts for Nic. Check.
- Instructions to Nic for running the house. Check.
- Guardians for Nic in place. Check.
- Stock fridge for Nic. Check.
- Backpack. Check.
- Meds, pills, and potions. Check.
- Pumped from last weekend's canoe trip. Check.
- Look at map to make sure I know where I'm going. Check.

This month, I will be giving up chocolate, meat, privacy, Douglas, and Nic. I am now off to the airport. See you in India!

Notes to self:

- Stretch before, during, and after walk each day.
- Don't let heart bleed and wear it inside shirt, not on sleeve.
- Rein in drama queen.
- Reclaim chocolate, privacy, Douglas, and Nic at end of trip. Decide about meat later.

Maps

2007-10-02T23:50:00.000-04:00

The route from Gwalior to Delhi is 314 km. We will see the Taj Mahal when we get to Agra.

Here's the CIA map of India. Click on the map to see a large version.

The route between Gwalior and Delhi is just a small part of India. And Delhi and Kabul, Afghanistan is just a stone's throw away from each other. A 2-hour flight apparently.

India Awaits

2007-10-01T23:39:00.000-04:00

I've never had the desire to visit India. I don't like the culture of extremes - I don't like the oppression of women and the poor, I don't like the gaudy materialism of the rich, I don't like the stifling heat, I don't like the smell of sandalwood.

Yet, here I am off to India. I am going because the opportunity came up last minute.

My friend Jill and her husband have been working on agrarian land reform in India for many years. They urge the Indian government to implement laws that will give India's poorest the right to own land so they can have greater self-determination over their livelihood. Part of Jill's work has been to organize a month-long march of thousands of India's landless in peaceful protest of the government's inaction.

On October 2, Ghandi's birthday, 25,000 people will start their march from Gwalior, India. They will reach the Delhi Parliament around October 28, where the marchers will be met by 100,000 others for a peaceful sit-in and hunger strike.

Rights of the landless in India has not been one of my causes. But as I learn more about the march and its participants, I see that issues of property ownership, poverty, and women's rights are cousins. The last two I do have interest in, whether they are issues in our community, in Canada, or the world at large.

I believe we ought to raise the bar so we can elevate the quality of life from the bottom up. We ought to be able to satisfy our physiological, safety, love and belonging, and esteem needs, regardless of economic situation. What Maslow calls deficiency needs that when satisfied, lead to growth and self-actualization. So I am happy to walk for the rights of the poor and women.

Going to India at this time also means I have a structure for my visit and I will be travelling with people I know. The daily walking and reduced food consumption will be good for fitness and health.

And then there is the part of me that is going just because I want to and I can.

So while I have no real compelling reason to go to India, I am leaving Toronto October 3 and joining the march October 5. No, no, I won't be doing the sit-in or hunger strike.

During the march, foreign guests like me will be given roofed accommodation with access to hand washing and washroom. Each day, we will walk 10 to 17 km and get fed at least once. They tell me to carry a small, light backpack only, with two to three changes of clothing. I have reduced all my needs into a school knapsack. No lugging of beer, wine or cold fizzy lemon drink for this picnic.

Organizers tell me they expect to have internet access every two or three days. If that's the case, I will provide updates and photographs of the march so I can take you on this grand adventure with me. Please write often so we don't get swallowed up in the heat and dust of India.

If I have no internet access, then this may be the only record of the march and my trip that I make. In that case, be well, everyone. I will see you when I get back. If I get back.