Incredible India

Incredible India.

At first I thought it was going to be alright, leading a volunteer trip to India with 12 Chinese students, and a 60 year old translator who could speak only one language. I figured it would give me a good opportunity to practice my Chinese, and hell, it sounded like an adventure.

So far it’s included two missed flights, resulting in overnights in Shanghai, and the New Delhi airport, enroute to Udaipur. It’s required me to hunt down the only person officially representing China Eastern airlines in the New Delhi airport, and 8 hours of negotiation to transfer 14 people onto another flight.

“Sir, I will take care of it, you just need to go with the rest of your group.” Says the Indian representative for China Eastern

“Alright, thank you so much. I really appreciate it.” I force a smile.

I’m not relaxed, I’m being told by my higher ups that I need to bring the group to a hotel for 4 hours so they can nap. But I don’t want to go to that hotel. I know if we go to the hotel we won’t get on the next flight, and I’m going to do everything in my power to get on it.

(Office in China) “I’m worried about them staying at the airport for that long, we will book a hotel for you.”
(Me) “I really don’t think it’s necessary, if we get on this flight it will only be 6 hours until we check in, and I’m worried if we go to the hotel, it will be hard for me to get us on this flight.”
(Office in China) “It’s really not good, we will book you guys a hotel.”
(Me) “Okay, no problem.”

 Incredible India. It’s involved a 60 year old who’s official title is support staff/translator, who, when we finally arrive in the community, requires more support than any of the students, and for me to be her translator.

“May shirr” she growls at me angrily, with her thick, pirate like, Beijing accent.

I know something is going on, she’s pissed off, and I have no idea why. Although I’m able to communicate in Chinese, the combination of her thick accent, and her inability to speak slowly, means I’m guessing half the time at want she wants. She already told me she didn’t want to be on this trip.

“Too hot! Too Far!” She told me. Yet here she is, in India.

I still haven’t caught up on sleep. I’m no longer patient, I’ve pretty much stopped caring.

“What do you want me to do?” I say in English, knowing she can’t understand. “If I don’t know what you’re upset about, I can’t do anything!” I plead exasperatedly, and louder than I should.

“May Shirr!” She Growls louder this time

“Okay, fine. Just let me know if there is anything I can do.”

I figured there would be times that would be stressful. How could it not be? Leading groups of Chinese youth to international locations in developing countries. But after a smooth trip to Kenya I have relaxed, it’s not so bad.

My co-facilitator jokes with me “We will look back on this trip and laugh.”

“Haha, totally.”

Incredible India. We are nearing the end of the trip, I should be relaxed. No serious illness have befallen any of the students. Things have actually been relatively smooth once we got to the community in rural India. I’ve really enjoyed my time in the communities, and hanging out with the rest of the facilitators. There is just one thing, I don’t have a Visa to go back to China.

(Office in China) “I think the transit Visa will work, I’m sure it will.”
(Me) “Are you sure? Has anyone done this in the past? The information I find online says that I won’t be able to board the flight, as it does not qualify for the transit Visa.”
(Office in China) “Yes I’m sure, I’m sure.”
(Me) “Okay thank you, As long as you’re sure.”
(Office in China) “Alright, bye. Yup…I’m pretty sure (click)”.

It has been incredible, the food, the sights, but most of all, the people.

“I’m going to miss you buddy, it’s been good.” I say to Rupesh, my cultural guide/roommate/movie watching companion during breaks.

“Incredible India!” Rupesh yells at me laughing.

“Haha, Incredible India!” I say back, waving.

I don’t want the trip to end. I’m worried that I’m going to get to the airport in Delhi, and won’t be able to get on the flight.

“Sir, do you have another passport.”

“Nope, just the one.” I reply.

“Do you have a China Visa?”

“No, I thought I could go on a transit visa.”

“Unfortunately, you can't board this flight as it isn’t eligible for the transit Visa, as it stops in Shanghai enroute to Beijing.”

“Yup, I thought so too. Thanks, bye.”

“Josh! There’s something wrong with Michael, we took him to the doctor.”

“Sir, your student is technically fine.” Says the airport doctor, “I mean we can’t actually find anything wrong with him. I know that’s hard to believe given how much pain he seems to be in. It’s probably just a stomach ache.”

“So he can fly?” I ask.

“Yes, no problem. We will give him something for the pain.”

“Michael, you go to to get up and check in for your flight.”

“Ooooohhhh no my stomach, I can’t move.”

“Michael, I know you are in pain, but the doctor says you will be okay. We will get you a wheelchair, I promise we won't put your health at risk, but you have to check in for this flight.”

I wave goodbye to the group, as they pass through customs, and are rushing to catch their flight. I feel a wave of relief… no…no...Euphoria rush over me, despite the fact I’m stranded in Delhi. This I can handle.

Incredible India.

Chinese New Year

Bang! Bang! Boom!

The shots ring out, and I have to restrain myself from ducking for cover.

"China is not at war" I remind myself "These are happy explosions"

Still it's difficult not to be alarmed by the frequency of the blasts which echo off the tall buildings that surround me. Some are single massive explosions, others rapid bursts like a WW2 era machine gun.

Ratatat!

I have never experienced anything like this before. Chinese New Year, is different from any Western holiday, which are comparatively subdued, and might reach their peak with the popping of a champagne bottle.  

The Chinese know how to party. Light off as many Fireworks as possible! The next morning the ground is covered in a thick layer of red. Not Blood, but the paper skeletons of used fireworks.

I came along outside with Serena and her parents, for what, I'm not yet sure. We left the apartment building complex, and are standing on the sidewalk along a Main Street. Burn marks have scorched the ground all around us. I am carrying a bag full of paper, and I sense something is about to happen.

Clack-Clack-Clack!

I continue to walk a zig zag, to avoid sniper fire. There are fires burning on the side of the road, a stray dog makes a run for it, towards the mountains, away from the fire fight!

My plan for the Chinese New Year was to do my very best to stay out of the way. This however, has not gone to plan, thanks in large part to the hospitality of Serena's family. I have been invited to participate in many activities. I made dumplings that fall apart in my hands; got my butt kicked playing Mahjong, for several straight hours until exhaustion blurred my vision; and watched the annual spring festival gala on T.V.

Even though I don't understand much of what's going on, I have loved every minute of it!

Poomb! Poomb!

Serena's dad marks a circle on the pavement with a stick, and then lights fire to the paper. So far my job is to hold the bag of paper, and periodically hand it to Serena who places it in the fire. I notice writing on the paper, and am told it is special paper money that is burned to send it to families members who have passed away.

Boom! Boom!

I look around and see several other fires along the street. The blasts continue, but I'm growing used to them, no longer jumping at each explosion. The freezing air makes me huddle close to the fire, and being a part of this ritual connects me to the holiday more than anything else. 

The Chinese New Year has not been immune to commercialization, similar to Christmas, including advertisements for deals at Burger King and Pizza Hut. But this feels real, and reminds me of going to church on Christmas Eve. The fires around me, like the candles burning while "silent night" is sung at the end of the service. 

Boom!

Maybe this night isn't so silent. Still, I sense this is not my first New Year celebration, I've been out here before, I've just called it something else.

Bang!

My train of thought crashes, and I realize it's time to go inside.        

 

   

Baby formula smuggling in China

 It's been about 20 minutes and the palms of my hands are beginning to sweat. 

"What's going on?" I think to myself "Will I pay a fine? Will they deport me back to Canada!?"

Irrational thoughts roll through my head, as only they can when passing through border immigration.

The man who took my passport, has now called a colleague over to discuss my case. I feel my back starting to sweat so I place my pack down, and deliberate whether to run, or face the bullets head on.

It all started two weeks ago, when Serena informed me that we will be taking baby formula with us when we visit her family for the spring festival (Chinese New Year). Her cousin is expecting, and unfortunately China has been stricken with numerous food safety scandals, to which formula has not been made exception. The latest scandal involved boiling down leather to supply the protein in a popular brand of infant formula.

"No, problem!" I said at the time.

While the Breastfeeding vs. baby formula debate briefly danced through my head. I figured that having non-toxic baby formula on hand sounded like a reasonable request. 

But now everything has changed. The border guards know I'm hiding something, they can smell my fear. There are three of them now, and one is on the phone with the higher ups. 

Before leaving Hong Kong, Serena and I made sure that we didn't take more than the maximum amount allowed. But now I'm not so sure. Did the rules change? Is it different for foreigners? Is it really milk powder in those tins? Or is baby formula slang for some illegal substance? That's it! I've been duped, and have found myself as an unsuspecting drug mule. 

I think back to the pharmacist who sold it to us. I never trusted him, the lone white glove, he wore Michael Jackson style, and the pot of boiled greens he quickly slurped down as we approached the counter. The certificate that hung on the wall behind him, from the Hong Kong pharmacy and poison board, must surely have been a fake. He must be in on this, switching the baby formula for something more insidious at the counter. 

As the guards continue to examine my passport, and I go through every possible worst case scenario, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. 

A message from Serena, we were split up at the border, since she is native Chinese and I'm a foreigner.

"Is everything alright?" her message reads

"Don't seem panicky" I think to myself

"Should be soon ;)" I type with shaky hands.

"Okay, I'm outside :)" She responds.

Something should be soon. The guards have broken their huddle, and one of them walks briskly towards me. 

He doesn't say a word. Nothing needs to be said, we both know I'm guilty. I close my eyes and cringe, as I raise my hands to accept the handcuffs. But instead of feeling hard steel on my wrist, I feel something slide into the palm of my right hand. I open my eyes and see my passport. The guard, looking bored, waves me through.

Relief sweeps over me.

They didn't even check my bag, and I now realize there was no way they would have known that I was even carrying milk powder. Yet my imagination tells me I just successfully smuggled an illegal substance across the Chinese border. My clammy hands still shaking, I sling the bag of "milk powder" over my shoulder. I take a deep breath and walk to find my co-conspirator waiting on the other side.  

Basketball Diplomacy

While Dennis Rodman was playing out his version of basketball diplomacy in North Korea, I was participating in my own in Hong Kong. Both events seek to form cultural understanding, and to bring two seemingly different, and at times "clashing", cultures together through sport.

The main difference between our forms of basketball diplomacy is that Rodman is operating on an international stage, in a valiant attempt to bring world leaders, who have been enemies for decades, together in the name of sport.

Whereas I'm trying to make some new friends.

After failing to integrate myself during my first stint in Hong Kong. I'm back, looking to find community and a sense of home. So armed with my partly inflated basketball, I head down to Southourn Playground. A large outdoor sports facility right in the heart of Wan Chai, equipped with 4 full size basketball courts, 1 soccer field, and a few dozen senior citizens reading the newspaper and chain smoking cigarettes.

The sun touches only half of the playground in the early morning, as it peaks over the skyscrapers surrounding the facility. I'm cold in the shade, but start bouncing my ball and taking some shots to warm up.

On the court adjacent to mine, a group is practicing Tai Chi. The leader shouting instructions over a screeching megaphone, which I assume is used to balance the peacefulness of the ancient Chinese practice.

The sun has now creeped its way to my court, and I take a minute to breath it in. Feeling warm, I take off my sweater, and continue to take jump shots.

I'm approached by someone who asks if I want to play some 3 on 3. It's myself and two other "foreigners", vs. three local guys. I say "I'm in", trying to stay cool, and hide my excitement.

I'm doing well, using my height to my advantage, I'm collecting rebounds at will and making some short range shots. In the end we win two out of three games, we shake hands, and exchange complements.

I talk briefly with my teammates, one of who is a fellow Canadian. I'm surprised how good it feels to talk, even briefly, to someone who has a similar background.

What I'm finding in Hong Kong is that I'm constantly seeking out foreigners, and better yet, Canadians to hang out with. To hear english, to talk about hockey, even if just for a few hours a week, really improves your mental health.

Canada is no different than other countries, in that new Canadians are expected to assimilate to the dominant cultural norms. I'm not an immigrant in Hong Kong, I don't plan on staying here for the rest of my life, so my experience differs drastically from that of refugees or people seeking a better life in Canada.

But if I were to move to Hong Kong could I adapt to local customs and cultural norms? or will I constantly be clinging to ones that I grew up with and am used to. Probably a combination, but I'm sure I would remain heavy on the latter.

I leave the court feeling satisfied, slightly more connected, and my head heavy with thought, which is probably more than Dennis Rodman can say.






   

Apartment hunting, and escaping, in Hong Kong.

I look over at Serena, I catch her eye, and can barely contain a smile. She's also smiling with her eyes. I manage to control myself, and cast my eyes down to the floor, and replace the smile with a withdrawn expression.

"What are you going to do?!" The middle age women states, more than asks, in her sharp English.

It feels like we're two rambunctious 12 year olds who are being scolded by our school principal.

She continues...

"You won't be able to find anything like this for this price. Are you going to go back to Canada?"

"I don't know" I respond in the most pathetic voice I can muster, while I'm still struggling to suppress a smile. I feel bad about lying, but at the same time can't help but find humour in the situation.

It all started a week ago, when we first came to Hong Kong following an amazing, but exhausting, 6 week trip through mainland China. Apartment hunting can be stressful anywhere, but more so in Hong Kong's unbelievably inflated housing market, it becomes nearly unbearable when coupled with the intense 45+ degree July heat.

We wanted to find an apartment as soon as possible; desperate to leave our cramped hostel room, equipped with a 1 square meter washroom, and a bed that takes up 80% of the floorspace.

We found a place that was okay, decent price (for Hong Kong), a little older, a bit dirty, and kind of out of the way of the main transit lines, but maybe because it was 4 times the size of our current room, we were able to rationalize putting a deposit on it.

After sleeping on it, we began having second thoughts. It doesn't have a washing machine, it's going to tack on an additional 30 minutes to our morning commute, and the building is kind of sketchy (Serena isn't convinced that my idea of keeping a baseball bat bedside will provide adequate security).

But it does have a harbour view! Kind of, if you look out at a certain angle through one window.

The real estate agent phoned to inform us that the landlord wished to meet before authorizing the rent that we agreed upon.

This gives birth to our diabolical plan.

We realized that we both regretted putting down the deposit. The one problem is we don't want to walk away from the money, and we are unsure if we could get it back just by asking (In hindsight we likely could've).

So we decide to adopt the facade of a young couple unsure of their finances, who expected their parents to support their living expenses, but we're recently informed that would not be the case. The theory is that if they are not confident we can pay the rent, they will not rent to us, and therefore refund our deposit.

Now we are looking down at the floor in the real estate office, trying to avoid eye contact out of fear that laughing will ruin the act.

I briefly feel shame about carrying out the plan, but maybe it's the same july heat that caused us to accept a dingy apartment so quickly, that allows me to push any doubt to the back of my mind.

Suddenly, the abrasive real estate agent stops talking. She looks up at us with tired eyes, and reaches for the contract that we signed yesterday. She looks directly at me, I see the anger on having lost a sale, but also compassion for the poor young couple sitting in front of her. She tears up the contract, and hands me the envelope of cash that we had delivered the other day.

A wave of relief wells inside, but a twinge of pain is also present. Knowing that we successfully duped the woman into giving us our deposit back, I can't help but feel shame for having found, and played, with the human side of this seemingly money obsessed real estate agent.

The other discovery I have as we walk away from the office, envelope in hand, is my hidden talent for lying. Sure we almost blew it a few times, but in the end it worked perfectly.

I'm disconcerted by the fact I was able to take on a different persona so easily, but as we continue down the street, and the summer heat turns my brain to jello, these thoughts fade as my only concern becomes finding a cool place.

The Bowen Road 5K

"Should I pee one more time?" I think to myself. "No, no, I'll be okay. I just went.

I'm packed together with hundreds of other runners, most of whom are wearing spandex and running shorts, and look much more professional than me, in my basketball shorts and baggy surf T-shirt.

I signed up for the 5k race a few weeks ago, thinking it would encourage me to exercise regularly in preparation. Now that I am at the starting line, the spirit of competition has taken hold, along with nervousness and doubt.

When I woke up this morning, at 6 am, and looked out at the torrential downpour, I figured the race will be cancelled.

"There's no way we can run in this!" I thought to myself "I mean at the very least it isn't safe".

I hurriedly turned on my computer to check for weather arrangements. Found it!

"Race will be cancelled in the case of a black rainfall warning, or class 8 typhoon"

Unsure of what exactly a black rainfall looks like, I check the official Hong Kong government weather page for today's warnings.

My heart sinks as I read "Amber rainstorm warning in effect".

"Who decides on this, totally arbitrary, stupid, colour system!" I say to no one in particular. "No one can go out in this, let alone run a race, it's 5k, it's fast, someone could get hurt!".

I phone the race organizers, who only advise to "Bring your rain gear" as the race is indeed still on.

"Rain gear!?" I think to myself "What, rain gear?"

I have an umbrella, but I hardly think it is going to help my race time. I'm now resigned to two choices, either suck it up and go, or crawl into my warm bed and sleep for another couple hours before work. I'm seriously leaning towards the latter.

At this point Serena has shown signs of movement on the bed, likely due to my incessant cursing from the other side of the room.

"You should go, if it's still on. Comon! you've been talking about this for weeks" She said, her voice dreamlike.

Following another 30 minutes of self-deliberation, and complaining about the race conditions, I head out in the rain.

Now I'm shuffling backwards, like a penguin with three hundred, or so, other anxious runners, overlooking downtown Hong Kong. The Bowen road 5k has some breathtaking views, though you are hardly able to enjoy them during the race.

"Please move back from the start line!" A voice booms from a megaphone.

Fortunately for us, the rain stopped about 15 minutes ago, and now the only thing on my mind is whether I should have gone to the bathroom once more.

I don't hear the starting signal, but suddenly the mob moves slowly forward. I find myself doing an awkward high stepping run, which is slower than my walking pace, but I am afraid to step on anyone's heels.

My stereotypical Canadian politeness, is causing me to drift toward the rear of the pack. However, as the group begins to thin, I pick up pace, like a large boulder nearing the edge of a cliff, I take off.

I transform, I am an antelope bounding across the Serengeti. No! scratch that. I am a cheetah and the other runners are antelope, and I begin to count how many I can catch.

1...2,3,4...5,6...7,8,9...

Suddenly, one particular limber animal bounds past in the opposite direction. I am about to turn and give chase, when I am shook from my trance.

"Wait, no. This isn't the turn around spot, the race has just started!" I think to myself "There's no way...".

Suddenly another runner hops by. I now begin to count those going in the opposite direction.

1,2,3,4,5,6,...

There are too many to count.

Doubt creeps into my mind.

"What if I need to stop and take a rest? Maybe I didn't train enough, I don't want to be sick for work later, maybe this was a mistake"

I put my head down and think of nothing.

"Just breath" I say to myself, "Just breath".

I reach the halfway point, and head back to the start/finish line. I am feeling good, I've managed to find the void in my mind, and am resting while my body carries me forward.
Suddenly, I am shook from this comfortable state, and I begin to feel something stirring within.

"It's okay." I say to myself "10 more minutes and you can use a toilet, just tough it out".

While I was so obsessed with doing number 1 before the race, my ignorance of number 2, may cost me. I grit my teeth, and keep moving forward. Unfortunately, this has also dropped my pace, as my mind becomes aware of the pain.

I am now moving like a wounded zebra, and it takes everything I have to keep from walking. Lions are now passing me, as I move awkwardly ahead on a broken leg.

I reach the final stretch where event organizers are yelling encouragement. I am able to pick up the pace slightly, and as I am about to be passed by a group that I had preyed on earlier, I switch to an awkward three legged sprint, and as a wounded zebra, labour across the finish line, mouth wide open, gasping for air.

This was by far the longest 21 minutes of my life; I now have a deeper understanding of the physical and mental struggles of competitive running, and I am humbled.

I limp forward, unsure of my surroundings, following my late surge. I see a public restroom and half walk, half jog, towards it.

Relief!

The Wan Chai crab

The fish is struggling violently in the shallow water, splashing in it's desperate attempt to survive. Unfortunately for the fish, even if it were to escape the styrofoam container, it would only be able to flap, hopelessly, on the dry pavement below. It's just about impossible for it to reach the harbour, 500 or so meters away.

While I am considering the fish's slim odds of survival, a voice next to me snaps me to attention.

"Wallet!" demands Serena, my girlfriend. She has finished bartering with the seafood vendor. I zoned out, as I often do, when the conversation turned to Cantonese.  

We came to the wet market to get supplies for tonight's dinner, and have apparently settled on four crab. I've never eaten crab before; well at least not crab that actually looked like a crab, only dips and deep fried meat that I was told was crab.

It can be an intimidating experience, for a foreigner, shopping at the wet markets in Hong Kong. As soon as you enter you are assaulted by a fishy smell and vendors yelling desperately in Cantonese. If you are able to make it past the fish, you enter the pig zone where a freshly slaughtered hog's edible parts are all on display. Everything from it's ribs to it's organs are hung, as if to dry, in the steamy 45 degree heat.

While the seafood vendor busily gathers the crab, one has worked it's way to the edge, and as the vendor reaches for its nearby brother, her hand knocks the crab out of the container.  

The crab crashes to the ground, miraculously it is able to land on it's feet. Like an escaped convict who's improbable plan has somehow worked, it looks around unsure of itself, before quickly darting out of sight.

Serena is wondering about the best way to cook tonight's dinner, and asks the vendor for her advice. As the conversation again turns to Cantonese, my attention drifts to the escaped crab...

After darting between two styrofoam boxes, the crab looks around to ensure that no one is following. Then, after a few tense seconds, it cautiously climbs underneath a piece of cardboard.

There it waits, for the cover of night, when its chances of escape are greater.

However, just as the crab settles down for some much deserved rest, the world starts to shake, and the platform begins to roll forward.

A very tanned shirtless man pushes the cart, yelling at shoppers, cigarette in mouth, to get out of the way.

As the man continues, half of his load begins to slide, causing the crab to dangle precariously off the edge. As it desperately tries to get back on the platform, something catches it's attention. A small stream running into a crevasse on the side of the road, the crab releases its pincer grip, and splashes into the sewer below.

After a series of gentle slides and waterfalls, the crab finds itself in a large pool, where several streams have come together. It begins to hear a terrible rushing sound, and as it begins to question the safety of it's escape route, is suddenly sucked through a small tunnel and shot to the other side.

After regaining its composure, Crab looks around to find herself in a small pool of water which is lazily winding it's way to the sea.

The Sea!

Crab frantically kicks her legs, desperate to finish the improbably escape. Just as the harbour is within her grasp, a terrible shriek is heard from above. A great bird grasps Crab in its talons, and swoops away.

Crab struggles to get free, so close to freedom, she won't quit yet.

Crab manages to get a pincer loose, and uses it to pry out the rest of her body. Straining under the effort she knows it's now or never...

"Hey! Are you ready to go?" My girlfriend's voice snaps me back to the Wan Chai wet market.

"Oh, shit...Sorry?" I respond stunned.

"I'm all done, let's get going. What were you looking at?"

"Nothing, I mean...nothing. Yea, I'm good to go"

As we leave the market I look back over my shoulder, hoping to view a glimpse of the escaping crustacean. Nothing, the crab is already far away, to the sea.