Thesis submitted!

A few weeks ago, I submitted my PhD thesis. It felt good – really good. It gave me a sense of accomplishment even though I have not defended yet. Submitting the written document convinced me that my four and a half years of work have culminated into a coherent package. Handing in the document gave me a sense of closure, but also a sense of opportunity since I hope this thesis represents not the end of my scientific career, but only the beginning, the spring board of skills and knowledge upon which my future career will be based.

After weeks of focused writing from morning till night, I now have a bit of time to spend with my baby. It’s been great taking him on long walks, playing with him at parenting centres, watching as at 9 months he is becoming less of a baby and more of a toddler. It is a wonderful transition and I’m happy to be experiencing it. Now if only there were more hours in a day so that I would also have time to write grant applications for a post-doc …

Making connections

I have been receiving email updates from friends, stories from all over the world from Toronto to Germany to Africa. They tell of new jobs, adventures, marriages, babies ... I consolidate these stories with my own as I type up the last bits of my thesis and watch my baby grow. It makes me think of how much people’s lives change over time and how people who grew up together, eventually, branch out - but somehow we remain connected. It is as if we are the leaves at the tips of tree branches, starting from the same roots and growing outward, yet still brought together from time to time by the occasional breeze.

Slowing down to wonder at milestones

Life is a whirlwind (nay tornado) of activity these days. Although I am very happy, sometimes it feels like I have to remind myself to breathe while trying to write up the final bits of the thesis, interviewing for housing, finding a doctor, looking it to day care etc. etc. etc. Amazingly, amongst all this having a baby has actually helped me to slow down! Every now and then my baby does something that makes me stop in wonder. The things he does are small and subtle, but when he does them, and I take the time to notice, it is as if time stops. I am overwhelmed by a sense of profound peace, intimacy and love. When we roll around on the floor together and he grabs his feet and puts his toes in his mouth, he teaches me to play again. When he stares in fascination at his refection and reaches out to press his palm against the mirror, I can see him discovering who he is, and he reminds me who I am. My baby is an exercise in mindfulness and I love him.

Berlin: A historical treasure chest

Berlin is Germany’s biggest city, a vibrant metropolis with a stunning past, an exuberant present and a bright future. The first person to lift off into the air did so in Berlin, pictures learnt motion there and no other city in Europe has as many trees as Berlin (about 400,000 of them). Much to my delight Berlin also has the world’s longest underground rail network and an extensive network of regional trains, city trams and buses which are exceptionally easy to use (even if you don’t speak the language). My husband and I visited Berlin for a Canadian visitor’s visa. Canada has no embassy in the Netherlands and not wanting to mail his passport we decided to go to Berlin in person. I’m very glad that we did!

With the visa out of the way we were free to explore Berlin. What struck me most about the city is it’s extraordinary past and how the layers of that past form a kaleidoscope of art, architecture and culture in the present day city. From spectacular Prussian palaces, to stark holocaust memorials, to murals and graffiti painted on the remaining stretches of the Berlin wall - history is everywhere.

Like most cities, Berlin has its tourist attractions (the TV tower, the enormous KaDeWe department store and its many marvellous museums). We saw these sites from the outside, but tourist attractions are not what makes a city. For me a city is its people, their history and the places they frequent. So Beto and I spent most of our time walking through Berlin’s neighbourhoods and discovering their present and their past. We began at the Hackesche Höfe. During the industrial revolution workers lived in this neighbourhood under horrible conditions. In response, architecturally fascinating courtyard dwellings were built as a way to incorporate living, working and culture. Remarkably, and despite hardships during the various wars of the 20^th century (the two World Wars and the Cold War) the area continues to blend home, work and culture today.

The next day we began in the centre of reunited Berlin at Potsdamer Platz - now a sea of ultra modern buildings and the home of the Canadian Embassy. From there we visited the Holocaust memorial, a series of 2711 grey monoliths designed by American architect Peter Eisenmann. The monoliths form a labyrinth through which visitors can walk and thus experience the confusion and helplessness felt by the Jews during the holocaust. We walked on through the Brandenburg gate, a monument to peace and victory topped by the Quadriga, a roman chariot drawn by four horses and driven by Victoria, the goddess of victory. During the Cold War the gate stood just to the east of the wall and access was denied, but today the gate represents yet another kind of peace and victory, symbolizing the reunified city. From the gate we walked along Unter der Linden Boulevard, marvelling at the amazing history of the street and the wonderful architecture on either side, including the fabulous Berliner Dom. During the walk we were drawn to the Neue Wache, the central memorial of the Federal Republic of Germany. Within a gray stone room sits a statue: ‘Mother mourning her dead son’ by Käthe Kollwitz. Most visitors are drawn to the statue, but I was struck by the emptiness that surrounds her – the emptiness left by war.

 Against our general dispositions we started the next day on Berlin’s 5^th Avenue, the Kurfürstendamm. The glitz and glamour of the modern fashion world was interesting, but I must admit that we quickly moved on to the glitz and glamour of the 1700’s at Schloss Charlottenburg the stunning Hohenzollern summer palace of Sophie Charlotte, wife of Fredrich III. From there we stepped forward in time and visited the Berlin Wall museum gaining insight into what life was like in Berlin during the Cold War. With images of the stark grey Wall fresh in our minds we then headed to the East Side Gallery. This is the longest remaining section of the wall (1.3 km) and was decorated after the turnaround by artists from East and West. Unfortunately, today the murals have been graffitied and are crumbling, but with some imagination one can still feel the hope transferred via paint to wall when the murals were first made. That evening we decided to experience the contemporary local scene in Prenzlauer Berg. The area was a centre for East Berlin’s young political dissidents during the Cold War. Today only a few of the crumbling buildings in which those young people lived remain, nestled between beautifully restored 19^th century facades, but the laid back feel of the neighbourhood lingers.

Our final day began in Potsdam, a small community south west of the city that is famous for its palaces: Schloss Sanssouci and Schloss Cecilienhof. In1740, Frederick II began designing the stunning Schloss Sanssouci (which means ‘without cares’) as a summer residence to which he could escape from the nasty business of being king. He was diametrically opposed to his “Soldier King” father, and although he successfully fought wars (while his father never did) Frederick II was an all-round aesthete who loved art, music and fine wines (even putting statues of Bacchus’ brothers and sisters around his palace). His magnificent Sanssouci palace and its lovely gardens show this artisitc side of Frederick the Great. Schloss Cecilienhof is much younger and was built in the early 1900s for Crown Prince Wilhelm and his wife Cecilie, Cecilienhof was the last palace of the Hohenzollerns but it didn’t really become famous until 1945 when the historic Potsdam Conference was held there in August. This conference between Stalin, Truman and Churchill (later represented by Attlee) concerned the further conduct of the occupying powers in Germany (The Soviet Union, the USA and England). It was in Potsdam, just after the Second World War ended, that the first chill of the Cold War was felt.

Berlin has been altered by the horrors of its past, but the spirit of Berliners (natives and newcomers) and their remarkable ability to rebuild, has made the city today a vibrant metropolis. To capture that feel before leaving we spent our last evening in another of Berlin’s local neighbourhoods – Kreuzberg. Kreuzberg was once West Berlin’s counter culture head quarters – on the fringe and with uniquely cheap housing. Today it retains some of that fringe flair and mixes it with the city’s more recent Turkish nuances. The result is another wonderful mix of East meets West, community and culture – oh and great döners and falafels!

Mauritania Musings Part 2

Our days in Iwik were busy and my time was divided between sanderling work by day and red knot work by night. It was exhausting at times but especially the sanderling work allowed lots of time to observe local life in Iwik. My first impression of Iwik was of houses that looked thrown together from scraps of metal, wood and bits of refuse. Still, the people looked healthy and happy and there were plenty of chickens and goats running around. As soon as they saw me the children asked for “cadeaux” (gifts), thanks to the tourist and researcher tradition of bring gifts in the past. I’m still torn about the idea of handing out money or gifts. I think it encourages begging and I believe that donating to community development (i.e. a school or a fresh water well) might be more useful in the long run.

Our sanderling catching team consisted of four people from four different countries: Canada, Ghana, Mauritania and the Netherlands. It was pretty cool to be sitting in an African fishing village catching birds with such a diverse group. The irony of the whole thing was that we were catching in one of the premier natural areas of the world - on the town’s garage dump. Furthermore, we were attracting birds with rotting fish bits so we were also attracted the town’s chickens and goats! Luckily for us these pests were cheerfully chased away by children who were more than eager to help us.

The child rearing system among the Imraguen struck me as rather more communal than in Canada, Panama or Europe. Many of the children who “helped” us have parents working far away in Nouakchott or Nouadhibou. For this reason the children are taken care of by the community and often stay with adults who are not their parents. Overall, this system seems to work very well and in general the kids are well behaved. It appears as if they run around the town unwatched, but whenever they begin to misbehave an adult appears to take care of them. The children are also extremely tough. To give an example, one of the youngsters picked at a small cut on his foot creating a bleeding wound. Then he ran around barefoot (as usual) among the rusting cans, fish scraps in the garbage. I had alcohol with me to take blood samples and tried to clean his cut. Amazingly, even when I put the alcohol on his wound he didn’t scream or cry, he just flinched a bit then smiled at me. Though he went ahead and ran through the garbage barefoot again later, his cut was healing nicely by the next day.

Daytime sanderling work also occurred at the local “fish delicatessen” where certain types of fish were salted and dried. Of course the term “fish delicatessen” is sarcastic since there is no deli and certainly no cooling facilities, but the processing was interesting to watch. First the fish are gutted and the teenage boys who were performed the task were certainly experts! They could do about two fish a minute, including the time it took to give us the guts for bait. I must admit that being given a handful of steaming fish guts was an entirely novel experience! Next huge amounts of salt were rubbed into the fish leaving them encrusted and then the salted fish were left to dry in pits. Later, half the pit was filled with water and the salt was rinsed off. Finally the fish were taken away by truck for further drying.

There was also time to enjoy the natural setting. In my free time I visited both the outer mudflats and the Baie d’Aoutif by boat, another beautiful bay near the village of Tessot by car. I also walked along stretches of dunes and beach where I could see flamingos, egrets, pelicans, shorebirds, Hoopoe larks and gerbils galore! Working at night also offered a unique natural setting. On calm nights with a sea of stars overhead I could hear birds all around - the trill of dunlins, the piping of redshanks, the honking of flamingos and most impressive the loud beating of huge pelican wings only a few meters away.

On one of our last days we also had the chance to go on the Imraguen’s traditional sailboats for a trip to the sandflat islands of Niroumi and Nair. The best part was sailing through the canals with a literal carpet of shorebirds feeding on the mudflats to either side. The scene became truly spectacular as the tide rose and the birds began to take flight, streaming over our heads in ribbons as they headed to their roosts.

Of course the Imraguen weren’t the only people fishing the waters. Nearly everyday the PNBA coast guard brought in a group of illegal Senegalese fishermen. They were arrested for fishing within the park boundaries, for using a motor on their boats and for using monofilament fishing nets. I was amazed at the size of the Senegalese boats. They are tiny – maybe 6m long with a very small motor. Amazingly a crew of several people lives at sea in this tiny space for days at a time. I am happy that the park is enforcing its laws and apprehending people who break those laws, but at the same time it seems to me that the people I saw arrested are working incredibility hard for the small amount of fish that they catch. And the Banc d’Arguin is threatened by more than “pirate” fishing boats that operate within its boundaries. In my opinion, overfishing by European industrial-scale fleets just outside the Park limits (and the fish know no boundaries) is a much bigger problem. These trawlers are a luxurious contrast to the Senegalese boats and have state-of-the-art catching equipment, freezing facilities and accommodations. They scoop up huge amounts of fish and export the proceeds to Europe while African fishermen are arrested. But the Europeans are not doing anything wrong. They are fishing outside park boundaries and are not breaking the rules … it seems unfair somehow.

Mauritania was an excellent experience for me and was rewarding both in terms of travel experience and in terms of samples for my work. But after spending Christmas away, I was happy to be heading back to my husband at the end of the three weeks. As usual I experienced more culture shock re-entering the “First World” than I ever do the other way around. I’m always taken aback by the excesses of our existence in “the North” whether I am re-entering via the USA, Canada or Europe. Our lives just seem ridiculous after weeks or months of relative simplicity. I usually find the shock worst at the airports: the pervasive advertising (mostly for alcohol which I didn’t see at all in Islamic Mauritania), the glittering buildings, the sterile metal surfaces, and the excessive security. There just seems to be too much of everything! Even the routine procedure of boarding the plane and taking off becomes absurd. To give an example, in Mauritania there was one plane, in the whole airport, one plane. We walked to it, we got on and we took off – immediately. In Paris there were more planes than I could count. We walked to a waiting room and then got onto a mini-bus which idled on the tarmac for half an hour before driving us to the plane. We could have walked to the plane faster, but that wouldn’t have been allowed. Then we idled on the tarmac in the plane for another half hour while waiting our turn to take off. Somehow the simplicity was gone. But my pet peeve, the thing that gets me every time, is the appalling waste of water. I absolutely hate the so called “water-saving” automatic taps and toilets in airports. These things send copious amounts of drinking water down the drain every time someone passes within a meter of them! It is ludicrous and I can’t help thinking, after weeks of getting my water from a well and either boiling it or having to drink expensive bottled water, that we need a happy medium between no running water and water that runs continuously whether we need it or not! But that is another rant :-).

Mauritania Musings Part 1

As the plane flew over the straight of Gibraltar, I got first glimpse of Africa! At first the scenery was mountainous and the valleys were green with irrigation, but as the plane flew further south all signs of mountains and irrigation disappeared and there was nothing but sand dunes as far as the eye could see – the Sahara Desert!

Mauritania is first and foremost a Saharan country with a human population of 2,800,000 and an extremely low density of 2.5 inhabitants per square kilometer (lower than Canada at 8 and way below the Netherlands at 981). Half the population is concentrated in two large coastal cities, Nouadhibou, the economic capital, and Nouakchott, the political capital where the plane landed.

From the plane window Nouakchott seemed to appear out of nowhere – a sea of low buildings spreading out in rows and separated by paved streets half covered with drifting sand. The city was built on a former oasis in 1958 when it was decided that Mauritania needed a political capital. It was designed for 15,000 people, but has ballooned to a population of over 600000 since the devastating droughts of the 1970s.

As we exited the airport we were greeted by representatives from the national park as well as a group of people asking for dollars, euros, pens, chocolate or whatever we had. It was an interesting combination of desperation and humor. They joked with us when one of our party used the excuse “I only have large bills.” to send them away. “That’s even better!” they laughed, “We’ll all share.” But we didn’t.

We spent one night in Nouakchott giving me time to see a bit of the city. My favorite place was the market. There was a wonderful and contagious energy of local people preparing for a celebration (Eid ul-Adha falls close to Christmas this year). I was enthralled by the beautiful scarves of indigo, fuchsia and gold displayed in stalls and hanging from the balconies overhead as well as on the hundreds of women shopping and selling in the market. The effect was an explosion of color that was elegant and fluid. It left me wondering why we in the north can never seem to emulate the colorful energy of the south without looking gaudy. Even what we would consider garbage was made to look elegant and I was amazed (as I always am) at the ability of people to make something from nothing by covering light bulbs with old packaging material to make lamp shades.

Outside the fabric market people were selling vegetables, rice and meat. The meat was not cooled and was covered with flies and there were many people with deformities indicating vitamin and mineral deficiencies in childhood and hinting at the poverty that still exists in Mauritania. But things are changing. This year there was a working elevator and automatic sliding doors in a newly constructed hotel. There were also billboards showing the Nouakchott mosque surrounded by skyscrapers with the caption “Nouakchott of the future”. I waver between happiness and sadness at seeing Mauritania on the cusp of development. I am happy that people’s standard of living will improve, but sad that another part of the world may lose its authenticity and turn into another shopping mall strewn clone of the “First World”. But it hasn’t happened yet and that evening at sunset the sound of the muezzin’s call to prayer emanated from the minarets of the mosque unimpeded by skyscrapers.

The following day we piled into trucks and headed to the Parc National du Banc d’Arguin (PNBA). The Banc d’Arguin is one of Mauritania’s most important national parks and makes up the northern portion of the Mauritanian seaboard. The park was established in 1978 and has the largest winter concentration of wading birds in the world (an estimated seven million shorebirds alone). It is also the most important breeding area for birds on the Atlantic seaboard and the richest fishery off the West African coast. In a nutshell the landscape is wild, desolate and beautiful, made up of sand dunes, coastal swamps, small islands and a wide expanse of shallow coastal waters. Some 1,200 people, the Imraguen, inhabit the park in nine fishing villages along the shoreline and our expedition stayed near to one of those villages – Iwik. Until the droughts of the 1970s the Imraguen (which means fisherman) were nomadic, fishing only from August to February and then moving into the desert where they raised camels and goats for the remainder of the year. After the droughts the Imraguen took to living in permanent villages and fishing year round by following the fish on their migration. Or else, like many other Mauritanians who lost their domestic animals during the droughts, they moved to the cities to look for work.

As we drove out of the city the buildings gave way to tents and then to endless desert. At first the desert was covered with low scrubby vegetation dominated by Euphorbia balsamifera (a native plant used to counteract desertification). But as we entered a hilly area, the vegetation gave way to fine orange sand blown into ever shifting dunes and dotted with the odd acacia tree – the quintessential desert. In places the road was covered with drifting sand, very reminiscent of snow and in fact the sides of the highway had “sand fences” that looked a lot like our “snow fences” in Canada. Just as it was beginning to get dark we turned off the paved road into the desert itself for the last leg of the journey to Iwik. We reached the research station in the dark and could choose between sleeping on bunks inside the concrete buildings and sleeping in a tent. I chose the tent and was delighted by the lovely quilted decorations which covered the interior.

One of the first lessons I learned in the desert was the practicality of head scarves. On our third morning I awoke to the tent flapping wildly, pelted by dust and sand. Visibly was poor and my eyes, nose and hair were filled with dust as soon as I went outside. Although the wind wasn’t strong enough to be a real sand storm, it was very impressive. I now understand completely why people living in hot, dry and windy places (i.e. much of the Arab world) wear head scarves which cover their faces. When walking outside I also wrapped my head and face in the traditional style and it helped immensely. Of course there are religious and social reasons for head scarves as well, but I had a lesson in their practical purpose.

Panama and Mexico Chronicles

The temple before me was a stone pyramid with steep sides and a flat top. Around it was a perfectly manicured lawn, arching palm trees and then in the distance misty mountains. I was in Mexico - but not at the famous pyramids of Teotihuacán as you might think. If I had been there, I would have been surrounded by tourists – but I was alone, in the ruins of Zempoala, 40 km northeast of Veracruz City.

Zempoala is a small site and not many tourists visit it. However, the purpose of my visit to Mexico wasn’t tourism and since I had allowed myself only one afternoon in Veracruz province to sightsee, Zempoala seemed the perfect choice. In all honesty, I also loved the fact that I could explore the ruins in peace, with no (other) tourists, no vendors, no guides, just me the birds and the temples. Despite its small size, Zempoala was an important Mesoamerican city. It was the largest city on the Gulf of Mexico and the capital of the kingdom of Totonicapan, home of the Totonac people. At its peak, it had a population of between 25,000 and 30,000 and in the end the city was an important staging post in the conquest of Mexico by Hernán Cortés.

The real reason for my trip to Veracruz was the North American Ornithological Congress, a huge gathering of “birders” (bird watchers and ornithologists) from all over North, Central and South America. Veracruz was chosen as a location in part to facilitate the attendance of Latin Americans without the hassles of obtaining visas for the USA or Canada. Just imagine Cubans trying to get into a conference in Miami for example! All in all, the conference was a great success with many scientifically stimulating talks and several inspirational orations given by people trying to promote conservation and ornithology in Latin America. It was also an excellent chance for me to establish and strengthen ties with colleagues in the Americas and to bounce around post-doc ideas.

After the conference I had a bit of time to explore Veracruz City. With a population of 500,000 (2000 census) Veracruz is a major port city on the Gulf of Mexico. It was founded by Hernán Cortés, who first landed there in 1519 at the start of his quest to conquer Mexico for Spain. It is often referred to as Puerto de Veracruz to distinguish it from the state and the people of Veracruz are known as jarochos. While in the city I hit the highlights of the Carranza Lighthouse, the Plaza de Armas and the colorful artisan market the malecón, a lovely harbor-front boulevard which draws more tourists from within Mexico than foreigners.

From Veracruz I hopped on a bus to Mexico City, taking in 6 hours of lovely scenery (and bad bus movies) along the way. With a population (in the greater metropolitan region) of over 17 million and an area of nearly 5000 square kilometres, Mexico City is one of the most immense cities I have ever seen. Low white houses seem to crawl up the sides of the surrounding volcanoes and entering the city by bus allowed an almost never ending view of the urban sprawl. My plan was to visit the Frida Kahlo museum in Coyócan, a district in the south of the sprawling city, but as luck would have it the museums were closed on Mondays. Instead I took the subway to the city centre and wandered the famous Zócalo (Plaza de la Constitución) a vast, flat square used as a stage for political rallies, special concerts, and holiday processions. A huge book fair was taking place around the square’s immense Mexican flag when I visited, and to the north I could see the Metropolitan Cathedral, Latin America’s largest church. Next to the church was the Templo Mayor (Great Temple), the ruins of a ceremonial center accidentally discovered in 1978 by city workers digging underground, and part of the buried Aztec capital, Tenochtitlan. From there I went to look at the famous mural by José Clemente Orozco in the Supreme Court of Justice. The mural is called National Wealth and includes a huge tiger representing the national conscience defending the country’s wealth from human greed. Then I doubled back to the National Palace on the east side of the Zócalo. The palace was built on the ruins of Moctezuma’s palace, and is now the seat of the federal government. Inside the palace was the highlight of my visit to Mexico City, Diego Rivera’s stunning murals, which lined the walls and stairways with depictions of Mexican life and history in vibrant colors and revolutionary fervor. Rivera was Frida Kahlo’s husband, a famous Mexican muralist and a staunch political left winger.

The only drawback of my trip to Mexico was the location of the conference center - smack in the middle of the resort district of Veracruz. I certainly don’t blame the conference organizers for choosing that venue, as housing 1600 delegates would have been a nightmare anywhere else. I was just disappointed by the surroundings - hotel chains, imported fast food and glitzy shopping malls in all directions. The place gave no inkling of being in Mexico, it could have been a resort district anywhere. Don’t get me wrong, I love going to the beach as much as anyone else. Furthermore I love traveling. I am a tourist and I am thus part of the problem. But I hate the fact that we are creating a “monoculture” – a monoculture that refers not to a single species of cultivated plant, but literally to a single (and in my opinion exceptionally fake and materialistic) culture. If I wanted to see an American shopping center I would have stayed in North America! When in Mexico I want to see Mexico and Mexicans - and not Mexicans cleaning my room, washing my sheets and waiting on me hand and foot – I can get that up north too.

Sadly, the same thing is happening in my beloved Panama. Since I left, luxury condominiums have sprouted like weeds selling the tropical lifestyle to Americans, Canadians and Europeans. I don’t mind the condominiums, in fact in this era over overpopulation and urbanization I am staunch supporter of vertical cities. But I feel like Panama is selling itself out, and I am desperately afraid that, like so many other places I have visited, it will lose it’s soul while trying to cater to the extravagant needs of others (on top of the extravagant needs of the already existing upper class). It is not that I mind sharing the country with other foreigners. I enjoy showing people around Panama, but it is Panama that I want them to see – not just another tropical resort. I also hate the impact of tourist dollars on poor or lower middle class Panamanians. Whole districts are being gentrified and the accompanying price rises are excluding Panamanians. Even worse is the unceremonious ousting of poor people from their homes on what have now become prime waterfront properties. Of course they are offered compensation – but in what form, and can it ever be enough?

Panama is certainly not the worst offender. I have seen the same thing in Peru, Ecuador, China, and yes in Canada too. And I’ve heard horror stories from BBC documentaries and from traveling friends that the plastification of South East Asia continues unrelented and that poor people are being evicted in droves. To me (and this is just my opinion) mass tourism is the new colonialism. When Europeans first colonized what eventually became the Third World (I use the older terminology for convenience), the land and resources of others were used to service the needs of the rich in the First World. Though many don’t realize it, this continues today and the Third World still exports (to the First World) more food that it uses to feed its own people and much more in monetary value than it ever receives in aid. Now even more land is being used to service the rich. Everywhere I look I see property being sold for ridiculously low (by First Word standards) prices. But if Panama (or anyone else) sells all of its prime property, what will be left for Panamanians?

Still not all the changes are bad. Yesterday I found a wonderful microbrewery in the middle of Panama City. Panamanian beer is notoriously watery, but this “home brew” was wonderful and completely local. The brewery is supported by tourists and locals alike and I like that. Other things are changing in Panama as well. As I write this Panamanians are gathering to vote in a referendum over whether or not to widen the Panama Canal. If the project goes through, and is managed without corruption, it will provide a plethora of jobs and will greatly improve the Panamanian economy - but at what cost? Widening the canal runs the risk or overtaxing the canal watershed and creating not a wider canal, but a dry one. Furthermore, why is the expansion necessary? Do we really need to accommodate bigger boats? The Panamax giants that I see in the canal everyday seem plenty big enough to me. Just how much “stuff” do we need and why do we need to transport it all over the world? Of course I am as guilty as anyone else of buying New Zealand apples during the local off season …

But condominiums and shopping malls aside I still love Latin America and especially Panama. I love the enveloping humidity, the roasting sun, the passionate storms and the vibrancy of the people. This country remains close to my heart and so far I don’t feel that tourism and development have robbed it of its soul. People here are as proud and feisty as ever as they prepare for their referendum and hurl insults at their government (both orally and via some excellent editorial cartoons) over a recent social security health service scandal. Indeed, I still love the place and it still feels like home to me.

Saludos from Panama,

Debbie

China Chronicles - Last Installment

30 June 2006, Day 16: An Early Canada Day in Hong Kong

After a long night on the bus with the driver leaning on his horn 50% of the time, I decided to rest and recuperate on Lamma for much of the day. But that evening despite my fatigue we hopped the ferry to Hong Kong Island where there was a party that two Canadians could not miss – Canada Day (a day early). Yup, it’s true, each year the Canadian Camber of Commerce throws a Canada Day party in Hong Kong. Between the neon lights of Lan Kwai Fong huge Canada flags flutter above hordes of people wearing Canada flag tattoos and T-shirts and ridiculous hats (that look more Texan than Canadian). They dance in the street and drink Chinese, Dutch and Japanese beer bought from the 7-11. It is slightly surreal but I’m glad I experienced it.

1 July 2006, Day 17: Temples in New Kowloon and Kindergarten Graduation

Back in Hong Kong I decided to check out a few more temples. I had noticed in China that the temples seemed more like tourist attractions than places of worship and wanted to compare again with temples in Hong Kong. I started in the Sik Sik Yuen Wong Tai Sin Temple and found the air thick with sandalwood incense from hundreds of worshippers. The Taoist temple was packed and nearly everyone was Chinese. People bowed and placed incense sticks in overflowing urns and then knelt and tried to divine their futures with bamboo sticks shaken from a box and later interpreted by a fortune teller. Then a gong sounded and a procession of monks entered the main temple and began chanting. There was a slightly circus feel, but it was definitely not a tourist attraction, rather an exuberant display of devotion. My next destination was the Chi Lin Buddhist Nunnery. In contrast to the Wong Tai Sin Temple, Chi Lin was subdued and serene. The minute I stepped over the threshold I felt peaceful. I wandered through the dark wood complex, past Buddha statues and beautiful lotus ponds truly feeling a harmony between humans and nature. Though very different, the air of worship at Chi Lin felt every bit as real as at Wong Tai Sin, and at the Po Lin and 10,000 Buddhas monasteries that I had visited earlier in my trip. What has caused the difference between the atmospheres at temples in Hong Kong versus in temples in mainland China? I can’t be sure, but a Chinese friend of a friend put it this way, “During the Cultural Revolution religion was forbidden, and with our Gods taken from us we have learned to worship money.”

But a fervent struggle for money and success is also evident in Hong Kong. My afternoon was spent in a huge stadium rented out for kindergarten graduation. Yes, you read that correctly, for Hong Kong’s upper class, kindergarten graduation is an important milestone. Only children graduating from the best kindergartens can gain admission to the best primary schools, the best secondary schools and ultimately the best universities. Indeed a huge amount of time and money goes into finding schools for rich three and four year olds. Of course, these schools must advertise, and the best place for competing schools to show their stuff is at kindergarten graduation. It is truly unbelievable. I watched as hundreds of five year olds lined up on stage and class by class got their diplomas. I was impressed to hear these little people thanking their teachers and parents in perfect English, Mandarin and Cantonese. And then I was awestruck as they put on a stunning musical performance that could rival the Cantonese opera! Scene after scene played across the stage and the children sported gorgeous child sized costumes that my high school would have killed for. There were stunning props, complicated dances, a glittering disco ball and even colorful confetti that rained from the sky. I have never seen anything like it. And yet, after hearing my friend’s tales of tears, trauma and backstage mayhem, I can’t help but question whether putting five year olds through months of daily rehearsal for such an extravaganza is really necessary.

2 to 4 July 2006, Day 18 to 20: Hiking the Sai Kung Peninsula and Farewell

With my time in Hong Kong coming to a close I decided to spend a day in the Sai Kung Peninsula, New Territories. The goal was a white sand beach on Tai Long Wan Bay and the only way to get there was on foot. The whole peninsula is a country park and harbors a beautiful mixture of green mountains and hidden coves. The 10 km walk took us past the High Island Reservoir, a beautiful fresh water lake that seemed to glow aqua green in the afternoon sunlight. At the beach, we picnicked in the sand, swam in the crystal clear South China Sea and shared with the locals a place that most visitors to Hong Kong don’t get to see.

I spent my last day in Hong Kong touring Hong Kong Island. I wanted to see the whole island so I planned a minibus trip from Central to the south of the island via the Aberdeen Tunnel and then east along the southern edge of the island to Stanley. From Stanley I took another minibus past the Tai Tam Reservoir and along the eastern edge of the island and then hopped on the tram for a final rumble through Hong Kong’s diverse districts from Shau Kei Wan to Kennedy Town. At the Stanley market, in a tiny and nearly hidden stall I found a lovely dragon and phoenix motif exquisitely died onto soft cloth using the batik technique. The dragon and phoenix represent husband and wife, emperor and empress, yang and yin, power and rebirth – powerful symbolism. Even better Chinese character in the center of the motif was the “shou” (pronounced “show”) meaning long life. That evening I attended a meditation and feeling happy and peaceful I thanked Hong Kong and China for the lessons they have taught me and I said farewell.

China Chronicles - Fifth Installment

25 June 2006, Day 11: Beijing to Guìlín

The following day I was back on the train for a 27 hour ride south to Guìlín. This time I opted for a hard sleeper on the train. During the ride to Beijing I had found the luxury of the soft sleeper with its closed compartments, lace curtains and velvet roses a bit too rich and isolating for my taste. The hard sleeper with its door-less compartments and three tiered bunks was much more to my liking. Here I got some proper contact with the locals when a boisterous group of young business men decided to take a look at all my belongings. I was reading on my bunk when I felt something brushing my feet and looked up to see two guys happily flipping through my books. In the West this would have been a gross invasion of privacy, but here it seemed normal and the guys and I managed to have “conversations” by passing around my Mandarin phrasebook, reading and pointing to phrases such as “Have you eaten?” in Chinese and English. At one point the young business men engaged in an animated conversation shouting and pointing and looking at me as if I understood. I sat quietly with the older couple from the bunk below shrugging helplessly until we all broke up laughing - it was great fun!

26 June 2006, Day 12: Guìlín

After the insanity of Beijing, Guìlín, with a population of over a million, felt peaceful and I was happy to wander around the Binjiang Lu shaded by Guìlín’s famous Osmanthus trees. In the late afternoon I boarded a bus for Yangshuo, a bit of a backpacker Mecca. Despite its reputation as a tourist trap I had found Guìlín devoid of tourists, but Yangshuo was a different story. The aptly named West Street was full of Westerners, and I was immediately bombarded by a chorus of “Hello, hello! Hotel? Postcards? You buy? You buy?” I made a beeline away from West Street and was very happy to discover that my hostel – The Yangshuo Culture House – was located well away from the main drag and in a typically Chinese neighborhood. The Culture House is so named because it gives visitors a local Chinese experience. My room overlooked a dusty street where I watched people make bricks from scratch. My toilet was in typical Chinese squatter style and was combined with the shower. This may sound disgusting, but it was in fact rather practical as the toilet was always sparkling clean. Just an aside about Eastern-style squatting toilets versus Western-style sitting toilets. I have heard Westerners in Beijing bemoan the scarcity of sit-down toilets by referring to them as hidden dragons in a sea of crouching tigers. But having traveled in a few places, I must admit that if presented with a somewhat unhygienic toilet, I much prefer squatting over the ground than trying to hover above a seat that I would rather not touch. But that’s just my opinion.

27 June 2006, Day 13: The Li River and Yangshuo on foot

Yangshuo’s defining feature is its landscape. Set amid a forest of stunning karst peaks and next to the aqua blue Li River, the scenery has inspired painters and poets for generations. Han Yu, a Tang Dynasty poet described it as follows: “The Li River is a blue ribbon of silk and the hills are hairpins of jade.” Three hundred million years ago the Yangshuo area was swallowed by the sea and when it emerged the geology was dominated by limestone from sea sediments. Karst is a geologic term that describes areas subject to forming caves and sink-holes, and limestone is a typical karst material because it dissolves easily in water. Caves are formed in karst as ground water in underground streams carries away dissolved material. Over time the caves get larger and their ceilings collapse creating sink holes and eventually the strange pillar hills seen in the Yangshuo area.

I spent the morning enjoying the landscape on a small boat in the Li River near the town of Xingping just north of Yangshuo. Around mid morning a train of large tourist ships paraded by with tour groups doing the mandatory Guìlín to Yangshuo cruise. Watching that insanity I was happy to have conquered my fear of traveling China alone and opted against an organized tour. I took a bus back from Xingping and arrived back just as the tourists were exiting the Yangshuo market. As the crowds dispersed I got a great chance to watch the locals packing up their stalls and then spent the afternoon walking the Chinese parts of town. Most of the time I was the only Westerner in sight and I’m pretty sure the locals thought I was lost – at times I was. I found a classic clothing market in a covered alley and watched endless groups of people playing mahjong. In the river a group of teenaged boys were swimming and I had to laugh as they splashed at the grazing buffalos when they got too close, and then gave up and swam side by side with the great horned beasts.

28 June 2006, Day 14: Cycling Yangshuo

The day dawned sunny and humid and I decided to brave the heat and cycle the countryside surrounding Yangshuo. I rented a bike and headed off past paddy fields ringed in karst until I reached the Yulong River. Then I turned south following the river and watching tourists as they were poled along on bamboo rafts. From the river I continued south following a veritable parade of tourists toward Moon Hill, a famous karst formation with a moon shaped hole in the center. After the turn-off for Moon Hill the crowds thinned and by the time I reached Gaotian Town, less than two kilometers away, I was the only Westerner. It was market day in Gaotian and everything from clothes to autoparts, to rice, to live fish and eels and chickens was on sale. Chicks peeped and played in wicker baskets and adult chickens were kept in wicker cages. The birds were bought live and carried away by the feet and new shipments of squabbling birds were brought in on the backs of overloaded motorbikes.

After taking my fill of the Chinese market I reentered the tourist train and cycled back to Moon Hill. As soon as I paid the entrance fee I was joined by a local who accompanied me all the way up and down the hill chatting and trying to teach me Mandarin while I helped her with her English. Moon Hill is so touristy that it is impossible to climb the hill without a “guide” like mine, but since I knew this in advance I didn’t mind paying her triple price for a can of soda and a postcard at the end of the walk, she was good company.

29 June 2006, Day 15: Hiking around Yangshuo

For my last full day in mainland China I opted for a hike along the Li River north of Yangshuo from Yangti to Xingping. The hike was beautiful and took me through some of the most stunning karst formations of the region. There was even time for a swim and the water was almost swimming pool clear, a stunning change from the multicolored rivers I had seen from the train. I highly recommend this hike, but it shouldn’t be done without someone who speaks Manadarin. I went with two Swedes and an American who had lived in China for three years and spoke Chinese well. His knowledge of the language was necessary to negotiate where to pay the entrance fees, where to find the ferries, and where to go when we got lost while following tiny paths along the terraced crop fields. Another important point about this hike is that the towns of Yangti and Xingping can be a bit dodgy about charging fees. The cost of the hike is by no means expensive and we had no problem paying the equivalent of 2 euros to enter in Yangti. However, when we tried to leave in Xingping, our way was hostilely barricaded by government officials who yelled at us when we showed our payment receipt and made us pay again. It would seem that both towns want a piece of the tourist action. In principle I think paying 2 euros at both ends of the trail so both towns can benefit is reasonable, but I have to admit that the way they treated us left me feeling ripped off and concerned about corruption.

I had another small culture shock later that evening as I waited to be picked up by the overnight bus that would take me to the border with Hong Kong. My “ticket” was a crumpled piece of paper the said “Pick up for this girl at Happy Hotel Lobby 9 PM - 29 June 2006”. Following the instructions I went to the Happy Hotel and was told to wait across the street for pick up. I stood at the side of a very noisy, dusty and hot road for an hour, but no bus came. Then a group of people from the hostel (including the fluent American) passed by and I sheepishly told them that I had likely been ripped off. When a sleeper bus approached, slowed and then drove off without me the American chased it down and was screamed at by the ticket taker. It seemed that he wanted to know what time her bus was meant to arrive and she was insisting that they were full. They yelled at each other, she yelled at me and then the bus sped off. So we asked at the hotel if it was normal for buses to be late. “Oh yes” they said “Often 2 hours late”. Great. So I waited some more, by this time feeling rather desperate. About this time strange men started approaching me on motorcycles muttering in Mandarin and motioning for me to get on if I wanted to go to Shenzhen (indeed the border town where I needed to go). But there was no way I, a single women traveler raised in a big city, was going to get on the back of some strange man’s motorbike. So I waited some more and different men came. Finally I returned to the hotel to use the phone hoping to call my American interpreter, but the hotel staff held up their hands, told me they were not responsible, and would not let me use the phone. Oh dear. Finally they took pity on me and sent me walking towards town with a bell boy who spoke no English. Suddenly he stopped and started screaming into his radio in Mandarin. Then he held it out to my ear, but I couldn’t understand a thing. So we walked some more. We arrived at a travel agency and four more men on motorbikes showed up and motioned for me to get on. By this time I was hot, tired and very desperate. A woman from the agency told me in broken English that these men would take me to the bus and I finally gave in and got on. I must admit that as we road along I started to cry, I was past tired and was convinced that these men would take me off somewhere, steal my things and kill me – or worse. But then we pulled into a gas station and lo and behold there was a sleeper bus! I paid my driver about 40 cents for my safe delivery (in fact I was so relieved I would have paid him much more) and feeling rather embarrassed about not trusting the locals I climbed aboard the bus. Why the bus never came to the designated pick up point and why it was nearly two hours late I'll never know. Before reaching the border, China gave me a final surprise. At 2:30 in the morning the bus stopped and all the lights were turned on. Bleary eyed I stumbled out for what I presumed was a bathroom break. I was right, but I have to admit that the toilets left some to be desired. In the ladies room there was a cement trough. No toilet, no running water, just a cement trough. I watched as the others straddled the trough, squatted and completed their business. What the hell, getting on the back of some strange man’s motorcycle didn’t kill me so this won’t kill me either.

A question of WHY

Published in The Hague/Amsterdam/Rotterdam Times 11 August 2006, page 14

Two lines in last week’s feature “Cabinet collapse: the rise and fall of Balkenedende II “really stood out for me. First, “ … Hirsi Ali got to keep her passport, which had become rather important for Hirsi Ali personally, as she needed it to get a visa to the US.” And second, “If I (Hirsi Ali) would sign the statement, the whole problem would be solved … The pace of the matter was more important than a little pride. I wanted to continue with my life.” In my opinion these two lines go beyond the rise and fall of this government, and they highlight the plight of immigrants and asylum seekers the world over, people much less prominent than Hirsi Ali. I think the debate was simply political posturing. Of course she lied about her name and about where she was coming from. We shouldn’t be questioning whether or not she lied, but WHY. Why do people feel compelled to lie on immigration documents or to desperate lengths to sneak in to developed countries? What is the root cause of a rising tide of illegal immigration all over the world? People go to desperate measures because poverty, persecution, environmental disasters, or war make staying at home impossible, and because immigration policies in the countries they are trying to enter are so stringent that it is easy to believe telling the truth will lessen ones chances of successful entry. I don’t agree with all of Hirsi Ali’s opinions and I’m fairly sure she doesn’t agree with mine, but I understand why she lied in 1992 and why she signed the statement that led to the fall of the government: her future was hanging in the balance and she wanted to get on with her life. We should be asking ourselves, as pointed out in the editorial, what is the root cause of the problems that are triggering mass human migration, and we should be asking ourselves if visa policies that make a person with a passport for one country seem more valuable than a person from another are really humane. Just as an immigration decision has determined the life and death of this government, the lives and deaths of hundreds of thousands of migrants hang in the balance all over the world everyday. The time is ripe to consider their stories and to examine the WHY?