Category: Uncategorized

October 20, 2021

I just have to get this off my chest. In the recent federal election, in Canada, the conservatives lost three seats in predominantly Chinese communities. Altho the losing politicians did not blame it on the leader of the conservative party and his policies towards the Chinese government, many Chinese people blamed the leader, saying that he hated the Chinese. This is ridiculous. The party platform said clearly that the foreign policy of the conservatives was not against the people of China, but against the Chinese Communist Party, the CCP. But many Chinese people in Canada took the view the conservative leader is against the Chinese people. This view was aided largely by misinformation promulgated in the Chinese Canadian social media (WeChat) by the CCP.

There are many reasons Chinese President Xi’s policies could be the target of Canadian discontent by the government and the public. In Canada, Huawei networking products are allowed, while Canada’s allies ban them. Huawei is a Chinese government-sponsored networking company that could use its products for spying. What this means is that Canada’s partners would not share sensitive information on defense and other matters. As well, Canada accused China of hostage diplomacy relating to the two Michaels, kidnapped by the Chinese, for Canada having the temerity to arrest Meng Wanzhou, the CFO of Huawei, in Vancouver. The imprisonment of the two Michaels heeled the arrest of Wanzhou. Canada does not condone hostage diplomacy. Neither human rights violations by the Chinese towards the Uyghurs. But the Conservative Party said that it is not against the Chinese people but the CCP’s policies. Very clearly. There were many articles and opinions in the papers that the three electoral districts were lost for the conservatives because the official policy of the conservatives was anti-Chinese.

I disagree with the concept that anti-Chinese government policies are synonymous with anti-Chinese sentiment. China has a long and rich history and culture, and Canadian universities are full of courses relating to China and full of Chinese students. In a recent visit to the University of British Columbia, my alma mater, I was completely flabbergasted by the number of Chinese students on the campus; I estimated that half the student population was Chinese (altho many of them could be local people from the Vancouver area). Over five percent of the population of Canada is Chinese, perhaps the largest minority today in Canada, mostly living in the Vancouver and Toronto areas. I grew up in Vancouver and the Chinese have great accommodation with other people in the city. It is the government today in China that is the object of criticism, not the people. Understandably, the Chinese people in Canada are proud of their heritage. Some people merged the conservative policy platform on China with their attitude towards the Chinese people and decided that the conservatives are against the Chinese people and three conservative Chinese politicians lost in the recent election. But that is incorrect and inappropriate.

Let me explain. I came from Hungary to Canada in 1956 and was a refugee because of the government policies in the 1950s that were against my future. But I am still proud of my Hungarian heritage. Hungarians bred many brilliant musicians, such as Bartok, Liszt, and Kodaly. They also produced the best women chess players in the world, the Polgar sisters. And there were many world-famous scientists, contributing to the atom bomb at Los Alamos, the Manhattan Project, like Szilard and von Neumann. Houdini, Lugosi, and Falk have all had Hungarian backgrounds. Did you know that Tony Curtis spoke only Hungarian until he was six years old? And Andy Grove, a Hungarian immigrant, was the founder of Intel. Charles Simonyi developed the original Office platform for Microsoft. He came out of Hungary as a teenager and Katalin Kariko developed the mRNA vaccine for BioNTech, the key component of the Pfizer covid-19 vaccine. One can be proud of one’s country’s heritage and people and disagree with its government’s policies. Just my opinion.

Just my opinion – what does a refugee/immigrant owe Canadian natives?

October 5, 2021

We are told by our government we are guilty. We, Canadians, are guilty of abusing or having abused our indigenous peoples. We’ve been told many times. We owe the indigenous groups a great deal, having stolen their land and tried to annihilate their culture. They live in poverty. They live in remote areas with no filtered water. They have poor education and health care, while we, most Canadians, live in urban areas with the best health and education facilities. And it is our fault that our natives live as they do.

What is true is that the natives live in poverty compared to the average Canadian; I have seen it personally when I worked for the federal department of Indian Affairs and visited many reserves. I saw it twenty years later when, as a volunteer, worked with natives in Labrador and traveled up north a couple of times to their community, where I witnessed their poverty and poor housing conditions. Up in their village, Natuashish, Labrador, inhabited by the Innu tribe, there is no sustainable agriculture; They import most foods from the South. While there was little in the way of fresh foods – fruits, vegetables, fresh meat, there were loads of frozen foods and manufactured foods like potato chips. Not healthy. The government built their housing to southern standards, ignoring their communal culture, which was unfortunate in my opinion. The house occupants destroyed the walls for firewood. They wanted money from the government to maintain their yards in contrast to suburban culture; where people take pride in maintaining their yards. No question there are cultural differences between the Innu and Canadian cultures and these differences have crystallized in putting an Innu community into a Canadian suburban model that the government built for them. In Natuashish, an Innu community of over 500 people, there were three miles of roads built with no connection to the south. All the Ford150s imported from the south by the Innu roared around for fun on the three miles of pavement. Bears were visible in the neighborhoods.

 In Natuashish, there was one high school graduate (I was there in the early 1990s), and the high school teachers, who taught via an interpreter since the children did not speak English,came from Toronto and the South. The children spoke their native language.

 Health care was provided by imported Health Canada personnel and the RCMP provided policing. What I found interesting was that although some of the local tribal people got out of the village and worked in Vancouver, and elsewhere in Canada, they came home. One woman told me she came back to reconnect with her local people to find support. She did not feel welcome in Vancouver and missed her origin.

Did Canadians force the natives into their poor living conditions? Of course, they did to some extent. The European immigrants pushed the natives further and further away from their settlements. Yes, the Europeans just took the plentiful land for nothing where they could, fought the natives for the land with superior weapons where the natives opposed them, and/or tried to negotiate an agreement for acquiring land by trading. Now we think we negotiated these agreements in bad faith or by offering the natives baubles and other nonsense, worthless by today’s standards. Negotiations to correct previous and perhaps devious deals with the natives have been going on for decades. There is official acceptance today the natives were often duped into letting their lands go to the white settlers for peanuts. There appears to be a Canadian group consciousness of guilt for having dealt with the natives unacceptably. We not only took away their land but also tried to assimilate them into Canadian culture, and the natives believe that there was a purposeful effort to take away their culture. Witness the residential school system. So the Prime Minister designated that the last day of September as the official “reconciliation” day, starting in 2021. He called for reflection, presumably accepting responsibility for subduing the natives, rendering them into poverty, and making us feel guilty about it.

This last point brings me to my dilemma; I came to Canada over seventy years ago with no knowledge of the history of the natives. Not only that, but I have never had any education or acquaintance with the native issue for a long time after arriving in Vancouver in 1957. I cannot recall meeting a native until much later when I worked for the federal Indian Affairs department and traveled to Saskatoon, where I saw many natives on the streets and visited reserves as part of my work, in the 1980s. Frankly, I never felt that I contributed to the misfortune of natives, that I was responsible in some ways for them living in poverty and lacking education. I did not take or steal land from the natives, I never fought the natives for land. So why should I feel guilty about their history? The history that I learned in my old country, Hungary, was that the conquerors take everything by force or by cunning. Attila the Hun took the area that Hungary occupies today by force and we were not taught that he negotiated agreements with the occupants of the land in the fifth century AD. The Ottomans ran over Hungary, followed by the Germans and then the Russians, and there were no negotiations, agreements, and contracts. So what is different in Canada? Perhaps we have new ethical standards. But I was never part of the past activities, taking the land from the natives, disenfranchising them, and contributing to their dismal living conditions. I am not saying that I have no empathy or sympathy for the natives. Via my experience working with them in professional and volunteer capacities, I have a lot of empathy for them and believe we should help to improve their status in life. But I am not presenting this proposition spawned by my guilt feeling but as my feeling towards all people who have not fully participated in what Canadian life offers – whatever the reason.

Canada’s population is 37 million; of which there are close to one million natives, first nations people; only forty percent of these live on reserves scattered across Canada. There are also over half a million Metis living mostly off-reserves and one hundred thousand Inuit, the latter living in the arctic area. So it is a small percentage of Canada’s population. But other poor people in urban and rural areas also deserve some assistance. So, should we be focusing on poverty or ethnicity? Having been an immigrant, I have never felt guilty about the condition of the Canadian natives. Considering that half of Toronto’s population is foreign-born, (and thirty percent of Ontario and BC) I wonder if those people have a pang of true guilt feeling about what the older Canadian settlers did to the natives. And, of course, poverty is not readily visible; one has to drive out to remote areas to see the reserves, it is not something one sees every day. On the very first “reconciliation” day, established by the Prime Minister, the Prime Minister showed a terrible example by going on a surfing vacation in Tofino, on Vancouver Island, instead of participating in one of the native events taking place all across the country. Just my opinion.

Introduction

Like so many others, we did not travel during the year 2020. Not at all. Over time, we even began to feel as if we were fenced in by the closure of the border between the United States and Canada, and the reduced international air travel. When people gave us a wide berth walking past us—turning their faces away—we knew public information on the dangers of the pandemic had taken hold. Then the lockdowns came, and our trips to grocery stores and the liquor store morphed into desired outings. My gym closed, which was terrible!

            The one positive consequence of pandemic lockdown was our growing savings in the bank; without travel, we saved money. The other perception I discovered during this time was that travel had become a habit, and that we missed that habit—traveling both to known parts of the world, but also elsewhere. We missed especially the elsewhere travel.

            I am not talking about holiday or beach sojourns, but trips to countries unknown to us, discovery trips I like to call them. There is freedom in discovery trips. I take minimal stuff: a suitcase and a backpack for daily excursions. Away from home, release comes from not thinking about bills to pay, daily commitments, and routine activities, like taking out the garbage at a specific time. Freedom also comes from the fact that nobody knows you at a foreign destination. In your hometown, people know you, know where you live and what you do, and accordingly, you follow habits, norms, and expectations these people have of you. Over the last decade, some of the elsewhere trips led us to discover India. When we arrived in India, no one knew us and we were under no expectations relative to our behavior. On discovery trips like this, you can change your habits and conduct. You could even take on a different persona, not that I changed my habits when traveling, but I did find that I had more time for people in conversation than I did during my routine at home—getting to know them; making friends with strangers.

            So what was I to do with all this time once locked down in our city and missing travel? Earlier, while writing my memoir, I had discovered that I liked to rattle my fingers across a keyboard, even with all the mistakes I made—which could be corrected later. I liked going down the stairs to my man cave, where I was secluded and free from doing chores. And research was part of the writing, a part I liked. I could look up the historical context and add it to my writing. And so, the inevitable happened, I set out to write a new book, and this one was about, what else?—travel!

            Travel has always invigorated me; I look at things with fresh eyes. I feel younger traveling and willing to try new things, like zip-lining. I visit unplanned places and engage in spontaneous events. I come home from my discovery trips rejuvenated and full of new energy. After each trip in this book, I changed my outlook on life—I’d learned new things. For example, the visible poverty in India put into context the general wellness we have in North America. Or, in comparing traffic in Ottawa to what I found trying to maneuver through downtown Dhaka, Bangladesh, I realized that our traffic problems were minor in comparison. And these comparisons provided context for local issues.

            Before leaving I often did some reading about our destination, but not too much, because I wanted to be surprised. If I were to study my destination, I thought, it might disappoint me if I knew too much to really feel the impact. After coming back, though, I’d add to my knowledge of what I saw. For example, I knew about the caste system in India, but it took some real-life instances of seeing it in action to understand the implications. I cannot forget our experience at Kolkata’s (also known as Calcutta) airport when a well-dressed man came out of nowhere and put his suitcases in front of ours on the conveyor belt as we waited in an interminable line for the x-ray inspection. My temper quickly sprung into action, and I shoved his suitcase aside, explaining to him in no uncertain terms that we were there a long time before he showed up; he did not argue the point with white folks. The experience motivated me to come home and read up on the history and evolution of the discriminatory caste system in India.

            But here I am already diving into lessons I’ve learned from traveling; let me go back to when we first got involved with one of the great discovery trips of which I speak.

            In 2008, we were invited to join Sleeping Children Around the World (SCAW), a charity, on their trip to Chennai, in the State of Tamil Nadu, in India. We jumped at the opportunity since we had never been to India, and soon we were on a plane with our team of volunteers. Providing poor children with the necessities of life, like clothing and school supplies, was the focus of our work.

            Sleeping Children Around the World worked overseas with local service organizations, and in Chennai, it was a Rotary Club. Since SCAW is a one-hundred percent charity organization, we paid for our fares and costs, and because of that, we thought it made sense to extend our trip and see more of India after we’d finished the charity work. We booked a trip with the travel company Intrepid to see Rajasthan, also in India.

            The charity work was such a satisfying experience that when SCAW asked us to go again in 2010, this time to Bangladesh, we accepted and again extended our trip, this time to the states of Kerala and Goa in southwestern India.

            And we piled up even more traveling experience in India when we joined still another team to go to the state of Maharashtra, India, in 2018.

            Working with a series of joint Canadian and local Rotary teams, in three different geographic areas, provided us with a rich fabric of experience. Locals introduced us to culture and history, and then amongst the team members, we were able to have rewarding discussions, sharing our views. For example, the Dhaka Rotarians took us to their favorite restaurant where they ordered goat brains—during the period when mad cow disease was ravaging England!  What did we do? We ate them. Besides thinking we should be courteous, some of us were curious. I can report: The dish looked and tasted like scrambled eggs, but with spices; we were in Bangladesh, of course. Afterward, you can be sure we Canadians had a lively discussion!

            On each of our trips, we left behind our Canadian way of life and opened our senses fully to engage with local culture, culinary delights, and people. I did not take notes during those trips, which would have been helpful for this later writing, but then we did not know Covid was coming; we did not know we would be locked down; and I did not know I would write a book about our journeys.  And yet, it is good, too, perhaps, that I did not have those notes. I was forced to go to my memory, and in thinking back, I have remembered the noteworthy details that differ greatly from our Canadian way of life. And so it is these, I set out to share with you not only the far-away experiences but also the preparatory work and often challenging travel.

My interesting outing during the pandemic started with Kathy dropping me off at the Queensway Carleton Hospital at 6:30 am on Feb. 24, 2021, for a total hip replacement. Leaving my car seat elevation cushion on the passenger side for when I’ll come back, I picked up the folded walker and my backpack with a long shoehorn and a “grabber” that helps to pick up items. This gadget has a trigger-like construction at one end that when activated closes jaws at the other end. I used it to pick up clothing with when I cannot not lean down. The brochure on hip replacement was in the backpack along with my meds that I did not take in the morning because I usually eat before I take them, and I could not eat before surgery. Under my winter coat, I wore a shirt with a zippered breast pocket where I put my health card, the only personal item that I was supposed to have in the hospital; had shorts on with sweatpants and loafers without shoelaces for easy put on.

The volunteer at the door inside gave me a mask similar to those sold in boxes at Costco so I had to change my fancier mask I bought at the Canadian Automobile Association; not sure why the other masks are better, but there was no reason to argue about it.

The next stop was the Covid screening and was also short since I told the screener that i was a the QCH last week for my Pre Operative Assessment and nothing had changed. She asked for my name and birthdate and checked me off her list that must have numbered in the hundreds.

Carrying my walker, backpack, I did as she instructed, and followed the blue line on the wall to room number 5, where I was received by a cheerful woman who asked me if I was staying overnight. I said that it was day surgery but was apprehensive about it. She chided me and asked why have a sleepover in a noisy place when I would enjoy much better food at home and a good bed. Once we reconfirmed my name and birthdate again, I put my health card into a glass box in front of the vinyl privacy paneland pushed it towards her. She put on my right wrist a paper bracelet with my name and birth date on it that I kept all day. Then I had to sit in the waiting area of room number 5 that was divided by transparent panels between the chairs to replace distancing.

In a few minutes, a young fellow called my name along with two others and we followed him, appropriately distanced, down the hallway until he opened, with a passkey, the doors to the operating suites. I stood in front of another receptionist and reconfirmed my name and birthdate to make sure that I did not forget who I was.

The series of social interactions was pleasant, the people were friendly and Iwas led into a breakout area that was curtained off and where I was told to undress and put on a hospital gown with the back open. The cheerful young man explained that there was one plastic bag for my clothing and another one for my shoes. He triumphantly pulled out another plastic bag with a Melita type cone attached to it he explained I could use should I vomit on the way home and avoid messing up the car. That was the last thought on my mind at that time, but it was a helpful suggestion.

Lying on the bed with a heated blanket was relaxing until the first of many nurses came along.  She introduced herself by her first name and we went through my identity again.  But this time, the nurse asked me to verify the spelling of my name as well. I knew what was coming; an IV was inserted close to my left wrist. She explained the veins are better there than further up towards the elbow. I did not know that, because previously, any IVs I had had were inserted further up by my elbow in the fleshy part. She had to dig around in my arm to find the vein – that caused some twitching in my veins- but she was firm and declared success. She suggested I look at the cheerily dropping bubbles coming down the pipe filled with saline solution.  I did not know what that was for, perhaps for hydrating? Another thing she wanted to take care of was my wedding ring. She suggested I pull it off since some of the machinery in the operating room may not work well with metal. But it would not come off, after fifty plus years of healthy eating the finger got too fat. So she she wrapped around it two layers of tape.

But that was only the beginning of testing for my vitals and I was immediately hooked up with a blood pressure monitor that kept pressing my right arm every couple of minutes. The IV was in my left arm and the middle finger gained a clip measuring my blood oxygen. The nurse was miffed by my high blood pressure number in the BP column and made me take my daily pill for blood pressure that I had not taken without having food in the morning. She brought apple juice and a couple of cookies to take my pill. After that, she moved a wand around my forehead, going behind my ear to measure my temperature. Then my solicitous nurse went for her breakfast and was replaced by another nurse, who looked at my three-ring binder an inch thick to make sure that all protocols were followed. I noticed that the binder was key to all activities and my vitals were logged in. My friendly nurse returned and we exchanged views on jams. She made her plum jam she had for breakfast with toast. I shared with her that we have concord grapes at home that Kathy makes into jam . I discovered she came from a farm in the Kemptville area. Going through my fat file, she whipped out a sheet on “nerve block” that I had to read.

I was going to get a nerve block in the “Block Room”. That hit me as scary; it sounded like a torture chamber in a medieval castle. And that was in addition to a spinal anaesthetic. I thought that before we are going to the block room i should void myself and was courteously accompanied by a young orderly carrying my saline solution that he hung on a hook in the toilet. I did not have to wait long and was pushed into the block room by another orderly and where I was received by another nurse who added to my hookups with EKG pads. The block room was narrow and I could hear my next door neighbour talking loudly to her anaesthetist with only a flimsy curtain between us.

I saw Dr. Charles, my surgeon, coming along the glassed corridor, outside, his bald pate shining under the neon lights. Dr. Charles had a purposeful stride, walking with long steps corresponding with his lanky frame that must be around six food five inches tall. He came and greeted me as Mr. Greiner, in contrast to all the other people who called me Andy and used their first name with me. He asked me how I was. I said I was ready but was curious why he was going to use the “lateral” surgical method, in contrast to the “anterior” method, where the recovery is much faster. The other advantage of the anterior method is that one can bend down in contrast to the other, which requires that one does not bring the upper body to less than ninety degrees with either legs. He explained that after three months both methods yield the same results and that men are much more stiff than women who benefit from the anterior method. I guess that it is the anatomy or men versus women that makes a difference in which approach to use. That clicked with me, I cannot reach my toes standing up or sitting down and reaching for my toes. Then Dr. Charles showed an interest in whether my legs were of equal length. He said that he could correct for that during surgery. He placed my feet against the back panel of the hospital bed and announced my legs were of the same lengths.

Ari, Dr. Rostas, the anesthetist came in to give me the “nerve block” and said that Dr Abdulla, another anesthetist, will assist him. I was wondering why they need two anesthetists but did not ask. Ari asked me to sit at the edge of the bed and lean forward to bend my spine down and warned me that the liquid he was washing my back was cold. I felt nothing but was sure that he put the needle in my back between the right vertebrates. Concurrently, Dr. Abdulla took out the saline solution pipe and told me he is giving me a cocktail to relax me. He inserted an injection type of object into the IV and pushed on it so hard to get the cocktail into my arm that I felt the pressure of the cocktail coming into my veins. I am sure the cocktail was not alcoholic, but who knows.

Now that I was fully hooked up, an orderly pushed me into the operating room where two people on my left pulled my legs and arm onto the operating table while two others pushed me from behind and asked me to turn sideways so that my right side was up and ready for an incision. By this time I was so preoccupied with all the people and activities that I forgot what happened next until Ari asked me how I was doing. I said fine and asked him where were we with my new hip. He said they were just putting the last clips into me. Wow! That felt good. Except that my body from the waist down was awol. I felt nothing, that was scary. I sent a message to my toe to wiggle but nothing happened. Then I touched my thigh with my hand, and that felt soft but had no feeling in it. Thought I could be dangerous since I could hurt myself without knowing it.

An orderly with a Spanish accent pushed me into the recovery area. He said he was from Venezuela and became an immediate friend noticing that my name was Jose, same as his. I looked down at my paper bracelet on my right wrist and yes, there was not enough space to spell out my middle name in full. That is Joseph and he saw only the Jose name. We connected, but I told him I was from Hungary; that nonplused him; I am sure he was aware Hungary had no Spanish speakers.

Judy, another nurse, took over from him and she immediately put on the equipment for my vital signs. She moved around awand just north of my crown jewels and declared that I had 240 grams of liquid in my bladder and men get the urge to void, a word I like much better than pee or urinate, when they have over 650 grams of liquid. I said that I could hold it for a while but would like to go void soon.

But that could not be done because the mobile xray unit came by and a wholesome young nurse with muscular arms stood next to my bed on the left and rolled me sideways towards her so that the young man accompanying her could insert under me a hard sheet may measure 18 by 24 inches. Once they adjusted the sheet below me, they took a couple of pictures. The xray machine looked like a giant robot with an enormous base – a neck and a block on the top that reminded me of science fiction characters.

The sedation was finally going away, and an orderly pushed me over to my last station in the post-operative unit where I met other nurses again who started with my identity questions. They offered me lunch that I took with pleasure, having not eaten since 7 pm the night before. Next to my bed there was a chalk board on which the nurse drew squares for all the last activities that I was going to go through before I could leave. That included “teaching”, physio, voiding, taking out the IV and then leaving among other items. I was “taught” about all the anti coagulant pills that I will take and all the painkillers. It was time for me to dress up and a young nurse pulled into me my shorts and sweatpants. I felt a bit awkward and mumbled something that she must be used to dressing men. By this time they had called Kathy to pick me up and they took me in a wheelchair to the entrance.

The entire day was a blast, and I counted up to 19 people that I talked with in flesh and blood. It was the most people that I had socialized with in a day for over a year. And for that, I had to have a hip replacement! Note: because of the sedation, I may not have captured the activities in the right order.

Making a snap decision to go to Chennai, India, with a charity was not the first trip for us. We started traveling after my retirement when time became available. And the cost of travel was within our capabilities, especially when you start with a backpack.

My interest in travel goes back a long way. I was a voracious reader in my preteens and in Hungary in the 1950s, one of the best-known authors was Karl May, a German author who wrote adventure stories. He sold over 200 million copies of his books that have been translated into over 30 languages. Even Hitler was a fan of his in his youth and it is rumored that he gave May’s books to his generals for the strategies that Winnetou, the Apache chief in his best-selling series, used against his enemies. Altho May has never been to the US, he wrote about the American West and the Indians, whom he called redskins, and May did meticulous research to describe their way of life and the wars they had with the “pale-faced” people of the east. I and my friends devoured his books. I reread some of his books recently and found them on kindle. I still thought the stories entertaining altho the style old-fashioned by today’s standards when compared to thrillers with constant action. The description of the Indians and life in the old West in the US made a lasting impression on me and created an immense desire to travel in the US.

Besides May, I read the English author, Somerset Maugham, who wrote extensively on India under English colonial rule but also wrote a novel entitled “The Canadian” that described and compared life in England and Manitoba, Canada in the early 1900s. I enjoyed reading the book, and I reread it recently and found that some brits in the novel resembled the British immigrants I met when I came to Canada from Hungary in 1956. I found the cultural comparison between England and Manitoba extremely perceptive and reminded me of my experience in Vancouver in the late 1950s. I read Maugham in my native language and English when Hungarian translations were not available. And Maugham wrote many short stories about colonial India that made me interested in visiting India and the trip to Chennai appeared to be a great introduction to that part of the world.

Although books may give you the trigger to travel, it is when you get to your destination and start interacting with the locals that you experience the true meaning of travel. It is like watching travel pictures versus taking those pictures on site. We were backpackers in those days traveling with one backpack containing minimal clothing and toiletries and we had to interact with people in the hotels and restaurants and arrange our itinerary.

But travel is much more than seeing unique and exotic geographies and meeting different people who speak other languages. When traveling, you compare your beliefs, habits to other people and cultures and you define yourself more and more sharply compared to other peoples. You see poverty in some countries and ponder what your country did right and what the poor country did that resulted in poverty. You inquire about the natural resources that could give them economic leverage and ask about their education system that would be beneficial.

Vietnam interested us initially: we were living in Washington, DC, when the demonstrations against the Vietnam war broke out in the mid-1960s; in fact, I was on the Mall when a huge demonstration took place to end the war. The ongoing war in Vietnam affected many people. So then we started traveling. Vietnam was on the radar and we arranged a trip to go there.

On the first day in Vietnam, I saw a young shoeshine boy on the sidewalk in Hanoi and asked him to have my boots shined. He gave the price before he started and I had my boots on when he was working on it. When he finished both of my boots, he asked for twice the price he gave me, arguing that there were two boots! That got me upset, and I started arguing with him in front of passersby and the store owners next to us came out and watched us. Kathy said to me to just pay the boy, but I was upset and kept on arguing until one of the store owners told me to leave. Looking back now, this seems like a trifle and I should have paid and even given the boy a tip. I am not saying that everybody in Vietnam is out to fleece you, but you have to learn and deal with unpleasant experiences. And in Hoian, we bought shirts and clothing, some silk, so cheaply that we could not refuse; the tailor measured us up in the afternoon and asked us to return the next day for the completed product. And the shirts were ready and beautiful. The tailors worked all night to get the shirts ready; I found the Vietnamese very hardworking people.

At another time we signed up for a tour to visit a floating island close go Halong Bay and arrived at the island where we were the only people. Our group of six had a beer and then we were awaiting the return of our boat to take us back to the mainland. The boat never came and the people on the island offered to paddle us back for a fee. We were all disappointed by this turn of events since we said that we paid for our return trip, but the island people just waited for us, knowing that we had no way to get back without them. It took a young US law student to explain to us we were arguing over less than one dollar each! So we agreed to pay for our return trip.

One of the quaintest experiences we had was when we returned from the north of Vietnam to Hanoi via an overnight train and arrived in the city at four am. The only place that we could stay indoors that early time was at a “travel cafe”, places where they served breakfast and where you could sign up for a trip to sightsee parts of the country. We sat down, put our backpacks on the floor, and ordered breakfast. Next to us was a quiet couple who spoke English. After a while, I asked them where they were from and they confided in us they were from North America. So I persisted. Where in North America? They said that they were from Canada. That perked us up and followed up, only to find out that they were from Ontario! Then, of course, we were interested in where exactly they lived in Ontario to learn that they were from Ottawa! We immediately made friends and continued staying friends ever since.

The interesting part of traveling is that the more you travel, the more you still want to see. We went from Vietnam to Laos and, at another time, to Cambodia and Myanmar when the latter country just opened up for foreigners. I suppose that if you have the travel bug, you can never kill it so long as you thrive on daily discoveries of local culture and willing to visit especially the less popular travel destinations. So when an offer came to visit India with a charity to do some work, we immediately accepted it.