2015 June 6: The Secret Garden and Other Places

One of my favourite things to do when I am traveling is to get up early in the morning, just as the sun is beginning to rise, put on my running shoes and head out the front door. Not to run - I don't run! - but to explore. Most times I have no idea where I am going, and rare is it that I follow the exact same path twice in its entirety.

In 2002 I spent the summer in Beijing. Each morning I would leave my hotel at the crack of dawn, often not returning until late in the evening, bone tired from walking fourteen kilometers or more in the searing humidity - ground temperatures were often 50 degrees Celsius.

This was back before the era of digital cameras, and I still managed to take forty-two rolls of film! I saw sights that few Westerners have seen. For example, I visited one tiny little museum that I stumbled upon one morning that used to be the home of a very famous - to the Chinese - author. As I was leaving, the curator told me that while I was inside she had looked through fifty years worth of visitor logs, and I was the only Westerner to have ever visited the museum.

One of my favourite areas to walk in Negombo was among the myriad little streets and alley ways just to the north and east of Cemetery Road where our house was. I grew friendly with some of the people who live along those little streets, and never tired of seeing the abundance of flora and fauna in the middle of a big place like Negombo.

On June 6, 2015, I was walking along one of my favourite streets, listening to the singing of early morning birds and chattering people and blaring radios and squeaking bicycle wheels as children went off to school. I was taking photos of some of the flora on my way, when an older gentleman I had waved to and exchanged pleasantries with on several occasions asked to see my pictures. He was very impressed that I was so interested in flowers, and invited me into his yard to see his and his wife's beautiful garden - not visible from the street, all the while regaling me with tales of when each was planted and why they had included it.

True gardeners, we exchanged flower stories for quite some time as I took pictures of this hidden tropical backyard paradise. It was a very nostalgic experience for me, as many of the flowers that grow year round in Sri Lanka are ones that my mother plants every year as annuals back in Newfoundland..

 

I left his garden with handfuls of fresh roseapples, one of my favourite Sri Lankan fruits. With a texture like an Asian pear and a taste reminiscent of cardamom, I could not get enough. Steve and Elanor did not share my enthusiasm for this pink fruit with white flesh, but I ate them as often as I could. When our friends found out that I liked them, rare was the Sunday that one of the women from church did not bring me some from her garden.

As I munched along that beautiful morning, I stumbled upon a faint path that led down to the canal, where I was greeted by this gorgeous view, little seen except by the locals who use the makeshift footbridge to go to their homes in a poor neighbourhood hidden from sight from all who pass by....unless like me, they stray off the beaten path to discover the secret beauty all around.

2015 March 20-21: Foreigners

"Foreigners! Foreigners!"

That's what was being whispered all around Elanor and me when we went with our church women's group to go river bathing on March 5th. Sometimes in English, sometimes in Sinhala, but whispered, nonetheless. Once people realized that we were there with a large group of our friends, and that we were not there to gawk at them like some other foreigners who passed by, we were quickly included in the fun and games, and yes, even the bathing. This is the way I like to travel, fitting in as best we can, joining with our friends in their ways of doing things, learning about their culture by taking part in it.

I don't blame them for their hesitation at the beginning. After all, we could just easily have been like most others, there to gaze at the natives like they were some sort of exotic specimens there to be studied. I have seen similar situations countless times.

In Pond Inlet, we went to a feast at the community hall shortly after we arrived. We sat on the floor - like everyone else - with a couple that we knew, and sampled the food and tried to blend in. Two other couples stood on the sidelines, sometimes taking pictures, and making comments such as "I can't believe they're eating that", "That looks disgusting", and "People back home are never going to believe that this is what they eat." Pretty soon, we found that we were the only new 'Southerners' or Kablunaq (literally: bushy eyebrows, in reference to the Scottish sailors who first visited the Inuit in modern times) who were being invited to community feasts. (There were a couple of long-term white residents as well.) Others sometimes showed up if they found out about the feasts, game days, and dances, but someone always made sure that we knew about them. Sometimes we would be listening to the local radio station in Inuktitut, would hear our name mixed in among the announcements, and sure enough, within a few minutes we would have received several phone calls and a knock on the door, telling us of some community event.

This was especially apparent after a confrontation at the local 'mall'. I had gone to the Co-op store to get a few things. A woman approached me and said, "I don't think it's very nice of you to make the teachers do so much work!" Confused, I asked what she was talking about. "Your daughter is at our school and her teacher doesn't have the time to teach our children and then to teach your child everything again in English!" I replied, "Well, actually, the teacher is not teaching everything two times. I told her that we wanted Amber to learn Inuktitut, and to not teach her in English." "You want your daughter to learn Inuktitut?" was the incredulous reply. "Your son has to learn English. Why shouldn't my daughter have to learn Inuktitut?" I countered. By the time we left two years later, Amber could read primary books and write journal entries in Inuktitut, using their syllabic alphabet with thirty-nine characters. We found out later that with the exception of two families that were basically life-long residents and a principal's daughter, every other white child in the community had been home-schooled.

In China, I spent the summer in Beijing. Other members in my group traveled around China when our teaching was finished, spending a day here and a few hours there. I stayed in Beijing. Most people spend four hours going through the Forbidden City on the short tour. I spent thirteen hours there over a two day period, and when some of the workers noticed that I was interested in all the little details, they made sure to point things out to me and explain how things were built. At the Summer Palace when I showed an interest in how the ponds were built and other "non-tourist" items, people refused to believe that I was foreigner and could not speak fluent Mandarin, but could not figure out why I was white instead of 'yellow' (their word, not mine). Then they decided that I must be Russian and insisted on speaking Russian to me. I saw things that literally no other white person had seen, such as a small house museum in honour of a famous Chinese writer. In fifty years, I was the only non-Chinese who had visited. I know this because the curator checked the log book while I was inside, a logbook going back to the opening day, and in which every person who had ever visited had signed in with their full name and address. When an old woman that I knew found out the types of places I was seeing and the types of things that I was doing, she and a local teacher we both knew arranged to have me move to a different hotel. Four stars just off Tiananmen Square was not too shabby, especially when it ended up costing me nothing. The hotel was owned by a man whom the teacher had taught English classes to, and when he found out that I was interested in learning about 'real' China and not just 'tourist' China, he refused payment.

When we went to Muthurajawela, we saw a different type of foreigner, the kind that tries to get every last penny out of a people who are already poor. The entry fee at the marsh was about 1000 rupees per person, but about half that amount for children. (It works out to about $7.50 each for a two hour tour, with personal guide, boatman, the boat, and gas. Similar excursions back home typically begin at $50 per person.) When another couple heard that Elanor was getting the child discount, the husband quickly quipped, "Hey, my two kids are children too! They should get the discount, too!" and his two children chimed in. I am sure he was joking, but when you don't speak English well and are used to being taken advantage of, it creates awkward situations, especially when the 'children' in question are obviously in their late teens. It's a difficult situation for people to be in. Do they treat it as a joke? Maybe he's not joking. Do they give the customer the benefit of the doubt? What if he then tells everyone and they demand discounts? Do they say no and perhaps lose that business? Do they say yes and then take a loss for that tour in order to keep the customer happy? Did they actually understand what was said, given that English is a third language for most people?

We see it in the stores, too. We are used to getting charged the tourist price, although some of my regular places now charge me less. At one vegetable stand that I frequent, I used to get charged 100 rupees (76 cents) for a particular vegetable, still only a fraction of what I would pay back home. Then I was charged 50 rupees (38 cents). Two days ago I was charged 30 rupees (23 cents). Another day I bought two dresses - one for Elanor and one for me - for 2400 rupees ($18.18). I knew I was getting charged more, but back home this would have cost me $40 for Elanor's dress alone. At the same time, another couple in the store were haggling over the price of the two dresses they were buying. I stood there at the counter as I listened to them haggle back and forth, trying to get every last rupee they could out of this shop owner. Their dresses started at 2400 rupees, too, and they managed to get it down to 2200. I could have done the same, but honestly, the $1.51 I would have saved was not worth it.

People notice things like this. As we were leaving the store, the woman stopped me and said, "You didn't bargain." I said, "Did you give me a fair price?" "Oh, yes," she replied, "I give you morning price. Morning price always cheaper. I no make enough money, evening price is higher." I smiled and told her we would be back when we were ready to buy more. She then went over to the cabinet full of purses that Elanor had been eyeing the entire time we were there, pulled out a few and asked Elanor which one was her favourite. When Elanor told her, she presented it to her. I took out my wallet again, and was quickly told by both her and her husband that it was a gift, and that when we come back, we would get the morning price or better even if it was evening.

When we went to the natural area in Kandi, Steve was signing us in at the entry gate and paying the entry fee. He began speaking to the woman in Sinhala and mentioned that we were here for several months. After conversing for several minutes on a variety of subjects including what he was doing in Sri Lanka, she asked him what kind of visa we had. When she found out that we had resident visas, our fee dropped from 600 rupees ($4.55) per person to just 30 rupees (23 cents) each.

A third type of foreigner that we have seen is the type that smacks of the old colonial attitude. When our order came during breakfast in Kandi, the bread was not toasted. We just assumed that there was a miscommunication with the waiter or a misprint in the menu and didn't think anything of it. As we were eating, an older man sat nearby. The waiter approached him and the man started talking. He didn't want anything on the menu, he just wanted toast, orange juice and coffee. The waiter looked unsure and asked again what he wanted, as he pointed to the menu. The man repeated himself, then added, "Is that slow enough for you? Do you understand?" (Remember that while many people here speak English, many do not. That is why in restaurants with menus, you order by pointing at the number next to what you want to order. That way there is no confusion.) The waiter again pointed to the menu, which, incidentally, has a note on the top that tells patrons to "Please order two hours early to avoid disappointment". The man very loudly said, "Get me a manager immediately. Do you understand? I want to talk to your manager immediately, and he better be able to speak English!" The poor waiter ran from the room.

A few minutes later, the manager came in and asked what the problem was. "Your waiter does not speak English. That is the problem. I told him that I just want toast, orange juice and coffee for my breakfast, and he cannot understand that." The manager replied, "No problem, sir. I will bring you some bread..." "Toast," the man interrupted, "I. Want. Toast." "There is a problem, sir. I cannot bring you some toast. Our toaster broke this morning. But I can bring you some nice fresh bread." "Well that doesn't help, does it? Having a broken toaster is not very useful, is it?" "I am very sorry, sir, it just broke this morning." "Can you get a new one?" Silence. After all, it was 7:30 in the morning. "Well?" "I will get you some toast, sir." "That wasn't so hard, then, was it?" was the response.

The kind of foreigner you are while traveling can have a big impact on the way that people treat you. Steve and I have both seen this during our travels separately, and now, together. For both of us, it has led to some amazing experiences as people share their lives with us. For Steve, it has meant being welcomed into homes wherever he has traveled. The last time he was in Sri Lanka, it meant becoming welcomed into a Tamil fishing community as well as his church community. This time, he is garnering respect among the gypsies of Sri Lanka. He met with a family last Friday and Saturday. They were very reluctant at first, and told the tuktuk driver that they couldn't help because they don't speak English. "No problem!" the driver replied. "He speaks Sinhala!" They quickly welcomed Steve into their home, and after a discussion about what his project here actually entails, they are eager to help him because he wants to actually learn about their language and culture. So eager, in fact, that early Sunday morning the father called Steve to find out when he was coming back and to make sure that Steve knew that they want to help him, and that Elanor and I are welcome too.

Looks like Elanor is in for yet another huge culture shock.

We can't wait.

20015 February 21: A Murder of Crows

For as long as I can remember, I have loved crows. Ravens, too. Most people find these birds annoying, with their unmelodic and unnerving caw caw caw and their propensity for wreaking havoc with garbage. Birders and birdwatchers - yes, there is a difference, I am told - consider them 'trash birds', not worth noting in any detail on bird lists. But me? I have always been enthralled with this species' seeming enjoyment in their interactions with humans. And, like many Native American groups including the three whom I have lived among, I am fascinated by their intelligence.

Crows and ravens belong to the Corvidae family. In many cultures they bring fear and loathing to the hearts and minds of people, seen as pests by farmers and homeowners alike, a harbinger of death to be avoided and eradicated.

In 1992, there was some consternation in Kentville, Nova Scotia, near where we lived and where my daughter was born during the summer of that year, due to the desire of some residents to cut down a dead tree near the hospital. By night, this tree was a sight to behold, with its many branches weighed down by the hundreds of crows that roosted there. In the end, the tree was saved and the crows continued about their business for the time being.

http://ca.epodunk.com/profiles/nova-scotia/kentville/2001100.html

By 1994, the situation changed. The crows had multiplied, and others had moved in from more rural parts of town, and by some counts, they numbered forty thousand or more. Having outgrown the tree, they took over the downtown. A novelty at first, the townspeople were soon overwhelmed by the noise and the mess and the garbage created by this huge roost, and non-lethal measures were taken to encourage the crows to go elsewhere. These worked for a time, but in the end, a few dozen crows were shot, and this, combined with the continued non-lethal methods, succeeded in ridding the town of its crows.

In 1998 I moved to Pond Inlet, an Inuit community of about one thousand two hundred people on northern Baffin Island, Nunavut. We loved watching the ravens as they hopped about, able to subsist in even the coldest weather by devising ingenious methods of finding food and shelter. Forget to tie shut the hatch on the back of your skidoo seat? Don't be surprised to find a raven or two in there in the morning, hunkered down for the night. One evening we watched as one wily creature untied the knot and climbed in anyway!

http://ca.epodunk.com/profiles/nunavut/pond-inlet/2001835.html

But attitudes are changing in the north as well, as human populations grow and with them, raven populations, as food sources become more abundant:

Raven mad in Pond Inlet

Birds' prevalence causes problems for residents

Peter Worden
Northern News Services
Published Monday, February 18, 2013

MITTIMATALIK/POND INLET
The Baltimore Ravens may have won the Superbowl, but many Mittimatalingmiut are not raven fans.

The common raven is a frequent site in Nunavut communities, but recently the birds have become too much to bear.

Concerns surfaced on the hamlet's Facebook public announcement board over local ravens preying on small birds such as ptarmigans, and the ravens' prodigious populations growing out of control thanks in part to its scavenging, omnivorous diet of food waste.

"There's more ravens here than usual that's for sure. It's causing trouble and people are not happy about them because they go through so much garbage," said Jeannie Maktar, a clerk in the hamlet office.

"Every day there are more. We see a whole bunch coming in. I don't know where they come from. They're bigger, much bigger than before. They're very active even up around -40 like it is today."

While the common raven has coexisted with humans for thousands of years, many Mittimatalingmiut now see them as pests.

The birds can live up to 21 years in the wild and are still loathed more than revered by many in Pond Inlet.

"We really need to reduce the numbers of ravens," reads the public announcement Facebook post.

"Do whatever you can to protect your garbage. That way the ravens will starve and naturally reduce their numbers."

Aside from simply securing trash, another poster suggested hanging a dead raven to ward off others. Maktar said one elderly person in the hamlet does keep a dead raven near his garbage area.

"I think it works for the other ravens not to come around. They read that as, 'Well our friend is gone now and this might happen to us,'" she said, adding that the hamlet's dogs and ravens work together to break into garbage.

"That's one thing we're noticing, that the ravens and dogs help out together, saying 'There's garbage here, open it and we'll eat it,' I suppose."

Ravens are now ahead of dogs as the most numerous animal in Pond Inlet, said Maktar, who couldn't say whether there were now more ravens than people in the hamlet of about 1,500.

While the hamlet is outside of a park, Garry Enns with Parks Canada, speaking about ravens, said Parks Canada's primary mandate is to preserve and protect nature.

"Ravens are part of that," he said.

In 2002 I went to Beijing, China, for the summer. When I wasn't teaching, I spent my time wandering around the streets of the city, sometimes walking fourteen kilometres or more as I meandered through parts of the city that most tourists rarely venture, taking in the sights and stopping at every little attraction that I came across. At one little house museum for a famous Chinese author, I was told that in fifty years, I was the first non-Chinese to take an interest in their establishment.

http://www.vacationstogo.com/cruise_port/Beijing_(Xingang)__China.cfm

Many times I walked the famous side streets of Wangfujing, an area known for its alley markets, modern shopping centres, and street vendors. Come dusk, the poplar trees were home to many crows, watching over Chang' An Street, as this photo from January 2006 shows:

http://www.danwei.org/2007/12/11/xinsrc_1620103030936812507555.php

In 2007 I moved to Fort Resolution, a Dene and Metis community in the Northwest Territories in Canada's western Arctic.

http://ca.epodunk.com/profiles/northwest-territories/fort-resolution/2003976.html

Again, ravens abounded. I was greeted by them every morning as I walked across my street, past the neighbours' dogs, through the patch of trees and into the school yard. I don't know how many raven pictures I took that year, but there were many. I loved sitting on my back steps, watching them interact with each other, share food, talk. I loved watching them fly, swooping past, wing feathers rustling with the slightest whispers. (Should I admit that sometimes I talked back?)

The raven in this picture of the Catholic church was calling me. I ignored him. He kept calling. I ignored him. He kept calling. So I took his picture. Then he was quiet. (Some people I know refused to look at this picture after they had seen it for the first time - there are three ghosts clearly visible in the window when the picture is enlarged.)

Ravens in the Northwest Territories are often still given much respect and are said to hold much power. In 2013 they - or the Raven Spirit - were blamed for the malfunctioning that occurred at the grand opening of the Bluefish Dam Recommission!

In 2012 I found myself on my way to a teaching position in Moose Lake, Manitoba, a Swampy Cree community so far off the beaten track that it is difficult to find a map of where it is! 

(Moose Lake can be found in near the middle of the left hand side of the map.)

http://members.shaw.ca/kcic1/mapmb.html

That year, magpies - another member of the crow family - took my attention. I clearly remember the first time I saw one. I had just crossed the Ontario - Manitoba border in my old white Jimmy, crammed full of my belongings, when a sudden blur of black and white crossed my windshield. I pulled over and watched the bird land in a tree, the two of us staring at each other for an eternity before I moved on.

And now, I find myself in Negombo, Sri Lanka. House crows, with their grey-black bodies and inky wings are everywhere. Every morning I watch small flocks head east and north, fanning out over the city. And every night I watch thousands of them fly past, heading back south for the night. Last Saturday, using survey methods I recently learned about in a statistics class I took at Penn State University, I counted over nine thousand crows fly past us on Rainbow Beach in ninety minutes. With an average of one hundred or more crows flying past each minute for more than two hours every night, I estimate that there are between twelve and fifteen thousand crows that migrate due north each morning from their roost somewhere south of Negombo, not counting the thousands that fan out all over the city!

This is the sky over Negombo for two hours or more every evening. 

While I was watching them fly past, one suddenly wheeled in the sky, and returned to land nearby. A whole small fish was on the beach, discarded by fishermen. Instead of gulping down the treat as I expected it to in order to not have it snatched away by the myriad other crows flying overhead, the crow quickly examined the fish, then sat back and began calling. It turned, and called again. It did this in every direction until finally, after several minutes, two other crows came. They greeted each other, with wing tips touching and beaks knocking together, then all three began eating the fish.

No matter where I come across this family of birds, they never fail to amaze me. Despite the many hours I have spent watching them, despite the hundreds of pictures that I have taken over the years, I still find myself being surprised by their behaviour. While I have long known that they are very social birds, and suspected that they are very caring creatures, I am often surprised by the evidence of this, as seen above and by the touching tableau which we witnessed as we ate breakfast the other morning, which can be found here.

2015 February 13-17: New Kid on the (Asian) Toilet

(Posted with permission from Elanor.)

We have been in Sri Lanka for four days now. Steve lived here for nine months while he learned about a Tamil dialect spoken by the fishermen in Negombo, so he is doing just fine. I lived in Beijing for a summer while teaching English as a Second Language as part of a course and practicum work through Brock University and Beijing Normal University, so I, too, am doing just fine.

Elanor, however, is having some culture shock.

During church she was positive everyone was laughing at her, when in reality, many of the children were just excited because they had never had a white friend before. Resulting lesson? People laugh for different reasons - don't assume people are laughing at you!

During breakfast on day two she had a meltdown over the butter she was trying to spread on her toast, because it was cut into pieces that looked like cheese, which she almost ate before we stopped her. Resulting lesson? Food looks different here, so don't assume you know what it is!

During some beach time on day three when her dad was trying to arrange a future boat trip for us with some of the Tamil speaking fishermen, she found herself in the middle of buying several saris, four large carved shells, and a model boat from some beach vendors who did not speak very much English before I could get Steve's attention and have him intervene. Resulting lesson? When someone offers you something, they are probably trying to sell it to you, so just say, "Talk to my dad"!

During our time in Colombo on day four (today), we found ourselves surrounded by tuk tuk drivers on several occasions. It wasn't until we got back to Negombo that I figured out what was going on - every time Elanor saw one waving, she waved back, so she was hailing every tuk tuk we passed. Resulting lesson? Just shake your hand from side to side and say 'No thanks' or 'Shopping now'.

But the worst episode happened at a restaurant bathroom.

Bathrooms are different here in Asia. Back home, there's the tub or shower, the sink and the toilet, maybe a urinal if you are in a men's room. You sit down, do your business, use toilet paper to wipe yourself, wash your hands, and leave.

In larger centres here that attract a lot of tourists, it can often be the same. Our hotel, for example, has a Western three piece bathroom.

It also has a spray nozzle attached to the wall, like a miniature shower head.

Just like in France, where the use of bidets are common, Asian countries use water to clean oneself after going potty. In larger areas, toilet paper is often provided as well. But in more rural or poorer areas? There is no paper. Just a spray nozzle. Or a bucket of water and a dipper.

We had explained this to Elanor. Steve had explained how people go to the 'water closet' here. I had asked her if she understood. "Ye-e-e-esss," was the reply. But when faced with the reality of an outdoor toilet in a small room in the backyard of a restaurant in Chilaw, it was a different story altogether.

After the long bus ride to see the temple yesterday, the time spent at the temple, and the bird watching...it was time for everyone to go. Steve went first to check it out and give us the 'WC situation report' and came back with thumbs up - there was, indeed, a Western toilet. Elanor and I went to the backyard of the restaurant, where she went first while I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

"Are you okay in there?" I called.

"Uh...yeah," came the reply.

And I waited some more.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Uh...no," was the answer.

Then the door opened, and out came Elanor, soaking wet from the waist down, red-faced, and almost in tears.

"What happened?" I exclaimed.

"There was no toilet paper so I was trying to clean myself!" she responded. I sent her into the restaurant, and entered the little room myself.

There was water everywhere. E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E.

We finished our lunch and headed back to Negombo. When we got back to the hotel and while her dad was napping, I took her into the bathroom, had her sit on the toilet while wearing her clothes and pretend she was doing her business, and then demonstrated exactly how one uses water when there is no toilet paper.

"Ohhhh!" she said. "I thought you had to do it standing up!" I reiterated that no, you spray while you are sitting down and showed her again.

"But how do you not get your pants wet?" she asked.

"Well, you aim into the toilet before turning it on."

"Ohhhhhh. Well that explains how I got water all over the place."

"You turned it on before you were aiming?"

"Yeah, and the water went all over the floor and the walls and the ceiling. And my pants."

If you are Jewish, now would be an appropriate time to say "Oy vey".

Resulting lesson? Elanor says, "If you are going to take your kids to Asia, make sure you show them how to use the bathroom before you go!" And I say, "Carry toilet paper with you. And have your kids carry toilet paper, too."

But, it could have been worse.... At least it wasn't a squat toilet.