Hola!  Greetings from Fuengriola, Spain, where I have taken a pit stop en route to India.  (Yes, it’s work related, so stop asking.)  Many thanks to my various hosts: Mieke in London, Amanda & Steve in Spain, and soon Paul and Tijen in Vienna.

I was stopped yesterday by perhaps the only other Indian (actually Pakistani) guy in Fuengriola, who thought that I looked like Bollywood action star Salman Khan.  I atrribute this solely to my rippling he-man muscles and dashing superstar good looks.  Or, more accurately, to the fact that all Indian men look alike.  Judge for yourself:

Salman Khan vs Professor Wat

Now, today’s actual topic isn’t so much my self-delusions, but a topic that is relevant to my graduating students.  Many have come to me seeking advice for how to choose an Epidemiology graduate program, since several were lucky enough to have been accepted to more than one.

So what follows is a list of what I believe to be the appropriate criteria to employ when making your decision.  Much of it applies to non-Epidemiology grad programs, as well.  If you disagree with me, or want to add your own thoughts, please do so in the comments section below.

(As always, I ask Facebook readers to comment directly on the blog, rather than through Facebook, or to log in to Disqus via your Facebook account.  This way, non-Facebook users can see your wisdom, as well.)

1. Money

Which school costs you less?  This is a combination of tuition, stipends, scholarships, etc.

2. Livability

How is the city in which the school is situated?  Do you need a sophisticated urban environment (Montreal, New York, Toronto, etc), or do you prefer a small, rural environment (Guelph, Ann Arbor, Waterloo, etc.)  This can also include such things as the physical attractiveness of the campus, if that’s important to you; or whether the university has sports teams or social clubs that might be relevant to your lifestyle.

3. Age

How old is the program?  New programs are good if you want attention and resources: everyone associated with the program wants the first batch of graduates to be outstanding.  But older programs have well established processes, fewer administrative hiccups, and are known to employers.

4. Reputation

Look at the program’s faculty list.  How many are endowed Chairs?  Look up the publications of their faculty members: do they publish in top journals?

5. Adjuncts

Does the program have connections with the wider community?  In Epidemiology, one way to measure this is to see how many adjunct professors from government, industry, etc, are listed amongst the faculty.  These individuals represent additional resources you can call upon, and potential entries into the work world.

6. Supervisor – reputation

There are two schools of thought here.  A big name supervisor is an asset as your career progresses.  But a big name often won’t have time to coddle you.  A small name (*cough* me *cough*) will invest a lot of time on you and your project, but won’t win you any additional friends in the wider community.

7. Supervisor – workload

How many students does your intended supervisor currently have?  It’s nice if he or she currently has a handful, since they can help yo navigate the process.  But too many can mean that resources and time are stretched thin.

8. Supervisor – expertise

Does your intended supervisor, or indeed the program as a whole, have the expertise that you seek?  If you’re intent on being a maternal health specialist, for example, a program and supervisor with a focus on prostate cancer might not be for you.

9. Rate of graduation

Find out the percentage of accepted students who successfully complete their degrees…. and how long it took them to do so.  This is an indication of the program’s commitment to pushing students out into their lives.  I would say that this is one of the most important indicators.

10. Employment rate

Find out how many graduate get jobs, or end up in doctoral programs (whatever your intent is) upon completion.  A well considered program should produce graduates who are in demand by employers.

11. Self-employment

One of my peeves is a program that has a history of hiring too many of its own graduates.  Find out where core faculty members received their doctorates.  If it was from the same university as the one that currently employs them, then that might be a sign that the program lacks intellectual growth and diversity.  A caveat is that some graduates go on to do remarkable post-doctoral work elsewhere, or are employed elsewhere, before returning to work in their home universities; I think this is an acceptable exception.

12. Globally Known?

This is not important for everyone, but might be a small factor at play.  A middling degree from a globally recognized brand, like Harvard or Oxford, might be worth more than a degree from a stupendously wonderful program at the University of Buttfrack-Nowhere.  Mind you, if the latter really is stupendously wonderful, then it should also have a globally recognized brand, within its own discipline.

13. The personal touch

Does the program get you where you want to go?  Most students don’t know where they want to go.  But a few have figured it out.  If you know you want to commit your career to HIV fieldwork in Tanzania, then a program without an international health component is useless to you.  Similar if they have no connections to global NGOs, or no faculty members with global expertise.

14. And lastly…

Don’t worry so much about it.  In my opinion, there is no wrong decision.  Even if you pick a crappy school that makes you miserable, you have it in your power to write a kick-ass thesis that will win awards, garner publications, and make you a superstar.  At the end of the day, the power to make or break your career is always in your own hands.

Wow. This is my first time traveling by air in the USA since the TSA took over.  It’s never been a joy, but now it’s simply intolerable.

I arrived at Miami airport a bit surprised to see that Americans are still doing curbside check-in. I thought 911 did away with that.

Once inside, i passed a man muttering to himself: “never again, never again, never again, never again….” and i soon shared his sentiment.

See, once you check yourself in, and are hit with a surprise $25 fee for checking in a bag, you must then wait for someone to call your name before you can actually weigh your luggage. It was very Third Worldy, with throngs of people pushing and straining to hear their names, much like the doctors offices of my childhood.

Once you miraculously get your luggage weighed, you must then drag it to the TSA desk to be checked. Pushing and straining continues then.

The actual security screen was mercifully fast, and i didnt even get felt up.  I do wonder though what they accomplish by checking your ID several times when you’re in line.  No can leave or join the line, so do they expect our ID to magically change somehow?

Never again, never again, never again…

Part 2: Tampa

Greetings from Tampa airport.  Wow!  Night and day difference!  This place is pretty, efficient, pleasant, and I even got nicely felt up by the TSA agent!  All is right with the world again

Greetings from South Beach, Miami.  I’m in the throes of writing two enormous grants, several overdue papers and creating a midterm exam.  It’s presently Reading Week at the University, and I figured I could produce more if I sequestered myself and made myself produce. So far it’s working.

I’m writing to you from an outdoor cafe, the Fox Cafe, on Ocean Drive.  There’s free wifi I’m stealing from the Pelican hotel next door; and I’m enjoying the warm weather, pretty girls, hilariously annoying conversation all around me, and the exquisite, fresh food.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but I think much of Miami is borderline retarded.  A friend described it best.  She said the city is populated by the spoiled and entitled brats of New York, the spoiled and entitled brats of Florida, the spoiled and entitled brats of all the surrounding Latin American and Caribbean nations… and a layer of poor, hardworking immigrants who must cater to the outrageous demands of the first three groups.

Weirdness just abounds.  More precisely, douchebaggery abounds.  This is, after all, the preferred destination of that genus of sub-human, the Guido.  I’ve seen many of them about.  I also saw a guy who looked a lot like Chuck Liddell, blasting along on an SUV-sized skateboard.

The adventure began as I arrived at the Miami airport.  (It’s not my first time here, but certainly my first time writing about this place.  I’ve been here many times before.)  The line up for the taxi wasn’t moving, so I asked the people in front of me what the hold-up was.  Guess what?  Most of them weren’t waiting for taxis; they were just hanging out… in a line.

So I pushed to the front of the line.  The dude who’s supposed to flag down the taxis was chatting with his friends, all the while taxis zipped by, and while travelers looked on impotently.

So I flagged down my own taxi and took it to the Clinton Hotel in South Beach.  We pulled up to the hotel, and another putative passenger waved to the taxi driver.  He leaped out of the taxi and started loading her bags into the trunk… before unloading mine or accepting my payment!

I had to get out of the taxi, tap him on the shoulder and ask, “So, do you want me to pay you, or what?”

“Uh yeah.  I guess,” he said.  Seriously.

Like I said: borderline retardedness.  Or maybe everyone is stoned.

The hotel is okay.  But the best part of my room is that the full-length mirror has laces in it.  Seriously.  Like it’s a bustier or something.  Here’s a pic:

Oh yeah, been here one day and have already seen someone arrested.  Welcome to the USA

Here’s a pic of me having my first margarita of the trip, courtesy of a friend who lives here:

Oh… even better.  Ordering breakfast at the outdoor cafe, I caused a near emergency by requesting that my fries be replaced with a salad.  The look of horror and incredulity on the faces of the staff was worthy of recording.  And we wonder why there’s an obesity epidemic?

Anyhoo… I need to get back to writing my grants.  See you later.

Greetings from Toronto’s Billy Bishop airport. I’m writing this post on my latest toy, a T-mobile G2 (also called an HTC Desire), using Android’s Wordpress app.  The keyboard is driving me nuts. But given the hefty investment I made in this beast, I guess I’d better start getting used to it.

Tomorrow I’ll post my traditional new years blog post. (And there’s already a retrospective over at Skiffy.ca.)  But today you get complaining.  As I’ve already tweeted, one of my newer grammar peeves is misuse of the word “momentarily”. It means “lasting but a moment”; however most people use it to mean “in a moment.”

So the announcement I just heard, that my flight will be boarding “momentarily” actually means that passengers will only have a brief instant to rush onto the plane.

In the past I’ve both sung the praises and cursed Porter Airlines.  Today I will do the latter.  Forget the fact security checked everyone’s boarding pass three times over a 3 minute period, the following exchange may shed some light on my frustration:

Me: Hi I’m on the 9:00 flight to Ottawa, one bag to check.
Porter employee: where are you going?
Me: Uh…. Ottawa.
Porter employee: what time is your flight?
Me (sighing): 9:00
Porter employee: And will you be checking any bags?
Me (now visibly pissed): one.

And there you have it.  Time for my free booze.

Update: Okay, they won me over again with excellent in-flight service.

One week of schlepping bags across the Upper Mazaruni area of Guyana’s rainforest, as part of the latest Ve’ahavta medical team, and I’m finally in the Georgetown airport, awaiting my flight home… just in time for whatever Hallowe’en festivities await.

Since internet connectivity was not available in the interior, I saved up my blog posts.  Have at ‘em!

Oct 22

What a charmed life I lead.  Hours ago I was hunched in front of a computer in frigid Toronto, and now I’m… hunched in front of a computer inside a tent in the Amerindian village of Waramadong in the remote interior of Guyana.

Arriving in Georgetown early morning, I hightailed it to Ogle airport to catch a bush plane to Kamarang, which is a remote community near the Venezuela border.  The plane only had two passengers: me and a young man who was transporting a birthday cake. Yes, a birthday cake.

Here’s a pic of the view from my seat on the bush plane, of the rainforest below:

Here’s a pic of the front of the plane’s cockpit.  My mobile’s camera is able to detect the propeller:

There I met up with my contacts who filled both my hands with bottles of Guinness and loaded me onto a dug-out canoe.  So there we were, tipsy on beer, making our way down a jungle river, stopping only to piss.  Weird life.

Over for now.

Oct 23
Jawallah Village

Day 2 of the current expedition to Guyana.  My good friend and strong-like-ox team leader Bekkie departed for Canada today.  We took a long leisurely boat ride to Kamarang village to drop her off at the airstrip before continuing on another two hours to Jawallah.

Last night was sort of interesting.  After traveling for close to 24 hours straight, I bedded down in a palatial tent inside the Waramadong health centre, with my new compatriots fast asleep in adjacent tents.

I was awakened in starts, first by the lovely growl of distant howler monkeys, and then by the less than pleasant cantankerous outbursts of a drunken and profane man, whose voice indicated that he was inside the health centre.  I could hear the snores of my colleagues.  Why weren’t they awakened by this man?

I would drift back to sleep, quite confused, only to be awakened by a long string of very loud four letter words.  I had the presence of mind to reach for my knife, never far from hand.  But being semiconscious and very confused, I never found the wherewithal to get up and investigate.  Was it a dream?  Heck, I’d been in Ottawa earlier that day, and now I was in a tent in the South American jungle, possibly hearing a drunken AmerIndian man wander in our midst.  I was confused and dazed.

In the morning I learned that the drunk had been our boat captain, who was engaged in either an inebriated argument with persons real or imaginary, or having night terrors.  I lean to the former.  A weird first night.

After exhausting ourselves lugging our bags about 200 metres from the boat landing to our tenting location, we relaxed into a delicious swim in the black waters.  (For me, more like a splash than a swim… I can’t bring myself to swim in river waters that are too black to see more than an inch beneath the surface.)

Afterwards, I was overcome with a desperate desire for carbonated pop. A can of coke goes for US$3 here.  A colleague bought me an ice cold sprite, and I cherished it like my firstborn.

The evening ended with us lazily enjoying the full moon reigning over the Kamarang jungle river.  A tropical thunderstorm forced us back to our tents.  A long, hopefully sleep-filled night awaits.

Oct 24
Jawallah village

The village is nestled in a gorgeous section of the interior, with a moonlit river snaking between two banks of somewhat well developed human settlement.  The problem is that, frankly, people suck.  The young men seem perpetually drunk. Sexual assault is highly prevalent. Even the women of our team, usually deemed beyond such unwanted attentions, suffer vile comments and innuendos.  Indeed, one of our doctors witnessed what seems to be a rape attempt within the confines of our very clinic.

I’m afraid to say that my impression of Jawallah, despite its gorgeous children and friendly villagers, is one of drunken louts and sexual predators.

Nonetheless we had a productive clinic today, with about 70 patients seen.  One in particular ate up a fair amount of clinical time: an older man needing a circumcision after suffering an inflamed foreskin.  Not the most pleasant thing to watch.

I find myself strangely worried about some water purification kits I gave out to scores of villagers.  I gave strict instructions for one packet of the agent to be used for 10 litres of water…. but I’m worried that someone might create an over-concentrated batch as drinking water, and end up feeding his children insufficiently diluted bleach!

I think the fears are unfounded.  But I’m a worrier.

Off to sleep now… in a tent on concrete, as a dying generator and howling dogs scorch the background soundscape.

Oct 25
Kamarang

A half day clinic in Jawallah was instructive.  The day began with a house call to a house down the way, where an elderly woman had split her knee open after a bad fall.  Doing triage, I had my joyous fill of wrestling with adorable AmerIndian kids fighting to avoid having their temperatures taken.

I’ll never forget one particularly adorable 2 year old girl with undiagnosed Down’s Syndrome and partial paralysis resulting from a stroke.

Heartbreaking, yes, but as one of our doctors reminded me, each child is –as cliched as this may sound– a source of hope.

We took down our clinic and went off by boat to Kamarang, transporting two patients in the process, one of whom had to be carried the agonizing 60 feet or so of stairs going straight up from the boat landing to the health centre.

And here we are now, camped out in a local guest house.  The rest of the team is bedded down in tents on the guest house grounds.  I opted to pay the $20 for a private room and a bed.  Hey, I’ve got nothing to prove.

Tomorrow, off to Bartica…. and a chance to upload these blog posts!

Oct 27

Bartica

It’s 10:30 pm and I’m drunk off my ass.  We’re toasting the early departure of Dr Louis , a fascinating and hardworking man who easily won my respect and affection.

Today was a profoundly interesting day.  We provided a full day of clinical services to the inmates of the Mazaruni Prison (for long term offenders) and of Sibley Hall (for first time offenders).

The prisoners were uniformly respectful and pleasant.  A brief altercation arose after someone called someone else an “Auntie Man”, but otherwise things went swimmingly.  We saw 110 patients, much more that we would have seen in a community clinic, due to the regimented nature of the prisoner consults.

Some observations…

I don’t ever intend on being in a Third World prison.  Please Zod, never.

Almost everyone had a low back pain complaint.  Our physiotherapist had to see them four at a time.  Increasingly, I am convinced that the fastest growing global health needs are for psychiatric counseling and physiotherapy.

There were many cases of men who thought they had TB, but who just had migraines.

There were many cases of men with headaches and coughs who likely had TB.

There were a great many cases of swollen testicles (a result of undiagnosed STI perhaps) and at least one likely case of testicular cancer.

Language continues to be a barrier in providing services.  Yes, everyone speaks English, but not all English is alike.

I’d like to give more anecdotes, but I don’t think it would be ethical.  Suffice it to say that this visit has been downright fascinating, and certainly justifies my participation in this mission, as I hope to write a paper about it all.

Okay, off to bed.  Tomorrow we provide a clinic to the community of Itaballi then do a call-in TV show.

Oct 30

Toronto

So glad to be back in Canada.  The Customs dude caught me bringing back more rum than  what I am allowed, but let it pass since my mission had been a humanitarian one.  See, kids?  Volunteering pays off!

I didn’t mention than on our last day in the frontier, as we took a boat ride toward the city, we passed a bloated body that had been washed up on the beach.  This is officially the 4th random dead body I’ve seen in my various trips to Guyana.  What is it about this place?

Awaiting my flight to Ottawa now, and a frantic search for a Hallowe’en costume.  I have soooo much work to catch up on, and now I can add getting a TB skin test.  I’m concerned about my exposure, particularly in the Mazaruni prison.

In addition, I have a special treat for my students on Monday.  First they get to see my various bites.  Here’s a pic of my ankle:

Then they get to watch me take my medication for possible intestinal worm infection.  I don’t know that I have worms, but so many of the kids that we saw did have them.  And so many cute little toddlers –whom I was holding while their mothers received treatment– stuck their dirty little hands in my mouth.  There are no toys in my mouth!

Okay, off to get a stiff drink.

Greetings from Guyana, where I am frantically packing before my flight home tomorrow.  Among other tasks this past week was the much anticipated reunion of former residents of my family’s old village of Windsor Forest.  My family left the village about 40 years ago.  I’ve been back a few times since, but my parents haven’t set foot in the place in decades.  The reunion saw several generations of ex-pats arrive to re-live their long lost innocent youths.  As an aside, the village was once featured in an anthropological treatise by Raymond Smith of the University of Chicago.

I don’t have a lot of time right now to write anything of substance.  So instead you get a brief glimpse of the festivities through the following photos.

A tiny ferris wheel entertains the kiddies

My father tells us of his rice farming days

A pastoral view of the rear of the village

A foot race for the young village boys

The last event: climbing the "greasy pole"

ss

Let’s hop back a couple of days, shall we?  I was in Kakinada to meet with Dr Chandra.   Our last meeting ended at 1pm.  I had a flight out of Rajahmundy –a small, rural airstrip about an hour from Kakinada– leaving at 3pm and arriving in the major hub of Hyderabad at 4:30pm.  From there I had an 8pm flight to Delhi, projected to arrive at 10pm.  Then, from Delhi at 2:AM, I would fly to Canada (via Germany and UK).

I could not risk missing that flight out of Delhi.  If I did, I would be stuck in India for several more days and would miss my flight (tomorrow) to Guyana.  So that’s why I’d engineered a four hour buffer in Delhi.  Not a problem, right?  Amazingly, I made my flight from Kakinada to Hyderabad and settled in for long, comfortable wait for my 8pm flight, secure in the knowledge that I was in a super high tech, modern airport serviced by many airlines.

So 8pm rolled around and I went to the gate to wait for boarding instructions.  I ended that blog post with, “Signing off now.  Next time I check in I expect to be on a different continent!”  Just as I signed off, there was an announcement: my flight had been delayed… for five hours.

That’s right.  Just like that, my four hour buffer had been eaten up.

What transpired next can only be described as a desperate, frantic rush by hundreds of frantic travelers to make alternate arrangements as, it seemed, only one airline –Indigo– had any flights going to Delhi that would arrive on time, and then only barely.  First I had to request that my bags be unloaded from the delayed plane.  Then I had to request that I escorted out of the boarding area past tight Indian security.  Then I had to argue for a refund from Jet Airways, the delayed carrier.  (I received 2000 rupees in refund, about $50 Canadian).  Then I had to line up and jostle for the honour of buying a flight on the Indigo airplane.

Now, you have to understand how Indian airports operate.  You can’t get into the airport without showing a ticket.  If you have an e-ticket, you need a print out.  For most of us, this means arriving at the airport, going to a special airline window to get your print out, then showing that to security to get in, even before you check in!  Like all other airlines, the Indigo desk was servicing both the line up of buyers outside the airport simultaneous with those of us desperately trying to buy seats from inside the airport!  See the problem?  Slow service and a rapidly dwindling supply of seats.  And with each seat sold, the price suspiciously crept upward.

In fact after the third time that the attendant walked to the end her office to announce to us the new price, one person in line wisely shouted, “The price doesn’t matter!  We’re going to buy it regardless! So just focus on getting us seats!”  Amazingly I got one of the last seats to Delhi, a middle seat squeezed between two splay-legged, snoring, farting middle-aged men.  My price?  8000 rupees, or about $180 Canadian.

But it gets better.  I checked in with barely minutes to spare, only to discover that…. my bags were 5 kg overweight!  Seems those fellows whom I bribed in Kakinada were truthful, after all! Not a problem, I’m all about throwing money at a problem until it goes away.  Where do I pay?  You guessed it: back at the Indigo sales desk.  Yep, another long wait at that awful line, to shell out the equivalent of $10.

Long story short, I made it to Delhi –barely.  Got on my series of executive class flights and enjoyed a very long, but luxurious, series of trips back to Canada, via Germany and London.  My final carrier was Air Canada.  I’d planned on catching up on a lot of work on that flight, since I’d been promised an AC outlet for my laptop.  Guess what?  Mine was the only AC outlet that didn’t work!  So no work was done, and instead I re-watched the same two episodes of Glee over and over.  (Yes, I’m now a Glee fan.  Get over it.)

So here I am back in Ottawa.  I’ve been here for almost two (very hectic) days now and am going to Toronto later today to catch an important flight to Guyana tomorrow.  What’s the problem, you ask?  Well, it seems my luggage is still in Europe somewhere, and Air Canada won’t give me a straight answer about when (or whether) I can expect to get it.

Perhaps the wisest thing I’ve done in the past year is to put my house keys into my pocket before I boarded the Delhi flight.  So at least I have access to my condo, my office and my scooter.  But no wallet, no ID beyond my passport, not even any underwear.  Yes, I packed all my underwear.  I’m writing this, as Bart Simpson would say, with an unfurnished basement.

Happy for the visual?

I may have to cancel my train to Toronto today if my luggage doesn’t arrive in time… or ever.  Boo, Air Canada, boo indeed!

Two bright sides: just got a pre-release version of Batman: Under The Red Hood.  Gonna watch it now, bitches.  And drink.  The other bright side?  My rooftop vegetable garden has yielded its first product! A cucumber!  I’m a farmer! Yayyy!

Rajiv Gandhi Airport, Hyderabad, Andhra Pradesh, 7pm

Greetings from a sublimely beautifuland efficient airport.  I’ve discovered two thingsjust now: I much much prefer India’s south to its north; and it seems I’ve been spelling Andhra Pradesh wrongly all these years!

The south, with its proliferance of caterpillar moustaches, is more polite, cleaner, physically beautiful and slower than the north.  I’ve been trying to manufacture personal connections to the south, such as identifying dietary traditions that are reflected in my family.

The drive to the Rajahmundy airport from Kakinada was simply stunning, as wove through millennia old villages that still bustle with wholesome, though poor, agrarianlife.  Rajahmundy itself is a little town in the middle of nowhere.  How it got an airport I’ll never know.

Mind you, my bags were 2kg overweight (27kg), according to the technician who weighed them.  But he announced to the clerk that they were right on 25kg.  So as I brushed past him, I dropped 100 rupees into his hand that was cupped behind his back.

For all I know, he could have lied about the overweight bags.  But I admired his sneakiness and style.  Mind you, if this is the standard deal, it’s a wonder any of the planes ever get off the ground!

Another discovery at the airport was confirmation that almost all toilets in India are made by –wait for it– Hindware!  Oh irony, you are a fierce bitch. Here’s a pic.

This morning I enjoyed my final masala omelette at the hotel, then went off for my second meeting with Dr Chandra Sankurathri.  This time he showed his foundation’s school, which provides free education, uniforms and meals to hundreds of children who would otherwise not be able to afford such things.  The school also provides vocational training for adults.  I’ve added some photos of the school to my very small set of India photos on Flickr.

Here’s a brief video of the kids singing (in Telugu) about body parts:

The whole set-up just brings a tear to the eye, especially when you realize what might have befallen these kids had not the Srikiran foundation stepped in to give them an opportunity.

I tell you, I feel very honoured indeed to have spent so much one-on-one time with Chandra and his sister Hema.  The world is sadly short on truly giving and joyful people like them.

I have about 5 minutes before I board yet another flight for Delhi and there wait four hours for another flight to Germany.  But I can’t be assured of the same connectivity that I have here in Hyderabad, so I will write as much as I can!

Hyderabad airport, 5:45 pm

Oops, I misread my itinerary.  Seems I have an hour before I board. Oh well.

Did I mention that the Indian rupee now has its own symbol?  You used to have to write “Rs” to indicate roops, but now India has joined the US, Europe, UK, Japan, etc, with a specific symbol for its currency.   Here it is:

It’s a stylized verion of the “r” morpheme from the Devanagari alphabet.  Since Devanagari is used mostly by north Indians, I’m surprised the south hasn’t complained.  Oh well.

In other India news, the country has developed its  own internet browser, called Epic, which is based on Firefox.  Why does it need its own browser?  Well, maybe for font support.  But I really don’t know.

What else?  Oh yeah, so my friend SM and I saw a movie in Goa last week.  It’s fun to see a film in a nation that values its cinema.  Yes, there was fidgeting and some talking in the theatre, but it was all in good fun.  There wasn’t the annoying suburban entitlement games that go on nowadays in North Amerian cinemas.

Some observations about the experience, which might surprise those of you who’ve never been to India.  First, they play te national anthem before the film, and everyone is expected to stand!  I’m told that in the big cities, no one bothers.  But in our cinema, everyone stood!  Compelled nationalism in a movie theatre?  Dr Wat does not approve!

Second, there was assigned seating!  Even though the theatre was mostly empty, we had reserved seats and, supposedly, were not permitted to wander from those seats.  How the seats are allocated is still a mystery to me.  Apparently this is standard practice throughout the country.

Third, there’s an intermission!  Yes, an intermission!  This I approve of, as my middle-aged bladder is increasingly unable to survive both a large Coke and a two hour film.

Lastly, everything is censored.  We saw that forgettable Tom Cruise movie, Knight and Day.  The most offensive parts of it were its banal plot and sexist overtones.  But the offence, according to the Indian censor board, was dirty language and sexual content.  Swear words were blocked out, and I’m pretty sure there were some sexy scenes that I did not get to see.

Dr Wat is not a fan of censorship in any form.  Boo, India, boo indeed.

The same day SM and I took a drive to Mangeshi village in Goa to walk through an ancient village temple.  These are different from the classical, awesome Hindu temples that tourists always visit.  Village temples are smallbut gorgeous, and are still at the centre of living village life.  It was wonderful.

I mention it because Mangeshi is also the home of Lata Mangeshkar, hence the name.  Who knew?!

Okay, it’s time for my final thoughts about this particular trip to India.  See, everytime I come here things are dramatically different.  It’s impossible to have two similar trips to India.

In the past I have been charmed by India’s ancient cultural richness, horrified by its pooverty and filth, bewitched by its staggering vistas, temples and gorgeous people, hobbled by its brutal diseases, and amazed by India’s ability to affect my senses and groundedness.

In subsequent visits I have been shocked by India’s economic explosiveness, her youth’s thirst for opportunity and their optimism, and amazed by India’s spanning leaps into the future, hopping past slower moving countries like they were standing still.

On this trip my earlier enthusiasms were challenged.  I’ve seen more growth, no question, and a healthy disdain for all things Western.  But I’ve begun to see the stresses of expansion –stresses that are fairly obvious to those who live here.  One stratum continues to get richer beyond anyone’s dreams, but enormous swaths of poor get left further and further behind.

I’ve seen renewed stresses in the cities, where for the first time I see the distress on workers’ faces.  The work day is more hectic than ever, and the culture is slow to respond.  The best example of this has been the Delhi subway, which is modern and efficient; but the culture of “me first” pushing and shoving hobbles the subway’s potential for making citizens’ lives easier and happier.

Some serious challenges await India in the near future (one or two decades).  Overpopulation is always on everyone’s mind.  An unsustainable economic growth rate may see a crash sooner than later.  City infrastructure is in some ways improving, but in basic ways deteriorating.  The underclass must be acknowleged before a class and labour crisis befall this great land.  Climate change will hobble agriculture, strangle waterways and produce new sources of military tension, and a maturing society that might just be short of women presents a new, chilling demographic challenge.

See what I mean?

Signing off now.  Next time I check in I expect to be on a different continent!

Dr Chandra Sankurathri

Kakinada, India  8:pm

My last working night in India.  Tomorrow (day and night) will be spent traveling to Delhi in time for a 2:AM flight back to Canada, via Germany and UK.  (There must be a shorter way, no?  Geez.)

I’m ensconced in a swanky (by rural Indian standards) hotel in Kakinada, Andrah Pradesh.  I have at my disposal an immense and cheap room service menu, but I keep ordering just dal and rice, probably because it would be impossible to order dal and rice in hotel in Canada.  And I do love me some dal and rice.  (Have I written “dal and rice” enough times in this paragraph?)

I’ve just noticed that at the bottom of the room service menu is a warning: “Right of Admission is Standoffish”.  Maybe I should order me some of that awesome standof fish?  Okay, bad joke.

Kakinada is a “town” in the state of AP.  Andrah, even its capital of Hyderabad, is often ignored by tourists, since its charms are not on the surface.  But I’ve always found that AP shows me the India of my earliest visit.  The people are poorer than in the north, and cows still dominate the roadways.  But I’m heathily ignored here, even when I enter a store.  It’s a nice feeling.

Despite its “town” status, Kakinada has a population of about half a million.  Apparently there are many oil and gas exploration companies here, so there’s some money floating about, though, as usual, it’s stratified to the higher classes.

AP is, it seems to me, also one of the last places in India where local Indian soft drinks are more popular than imported American Coke and Pepsi.  In fact, I’m enjoying a refreshing (and sugary) Thumbs Up as I write this.  (Mind you, it saddens me to now notice on the side of the bottle, “A product of the Coca Cola company.”

My voyage here was a bit, um, interesting.  Leaving my hotel in Goa at 6:AM, I then flew to Bangalore then to a small city called Vijaywada where I foolishly took the first driver I saw.  I’m pretty sure he wasn’t really a taxi driver, just some schmuck trying to bilk, er, make a few bucks out of the travelers.  I paid him well past twice the expected rate for a two hour drive to Kakinada.  I don’t mind overpaying, not when I can afford it.  If that makes me a sucker, so be it.

But the fool was so obsequious and incompetent that comedy quickly turned to annoyingness.  After bilking me for double payment and what was surely an inflated bridge toll fee, he pulled into a gas station to refuel.  I knew instantly that he would, at some point, ask me for gas money.

When he did, I gave him a tired stare and raised an eyebrow.  He offered a sneaky and smiley, “Oh sorry sir” and did the Indian head waggle.  Oh he had money, all right.

The drive itself was quite stunning.  It had been some time since I’d paid a visit to an Indian farming village.  The vistas were sunny and redolent, brilliant green with that familiar, yet strangely pleasant, subtle odour of farming: dung, wildflowers and human toil.  Of course, Mr Taxi decided to roll up the windows at that point and drown the car’s interior with cheap perfume,  giving me a migraine in the process.

The migraine was not helped when he cranked up the Indian pop music and started singing along… out of tune.

Sigh.

I’m here in Kakinada to meet with Dr Chandra Sankurathri, who is in my opinion one of the finest humanitarians in the world.  Chandra was profiled in the Times of India just last week, and the Canadian site for his incredible projects is at www.msmf.ca.  There’s also a CBC documentaryabout him, as well as this article.  While I was visiting, a Newsweek India article about him had just been published, and he was displeased at its lack of focus on the plight of the people and its overindulgence with his own history.  He is a man of the future, of what can be, and does not necessarily linger in the past.

My involvement began when one of my graduating students, whose father works with the foundation, asked me if I knew any epidemiologists who might be nterested in helping.   A few months later, I’m in AP looking at pristine clinical data that is just begging for analysis.  Ironically, a few years ago a friend had taken me to a fundraiser for Chandra’s foundation, and at the time I’d found myself wondering how I could help.  Seems I was destined to come here.

(That “destiny” was alluded to when I miraculously met someone in Bombay who is actually from Kakinada.  She had rarely come across anyone who’d heard of the town, let alone a visiting foreigner.)

Words cannot express how impressive Chandra’s achievement has become.  In the past 7 years alone, he has treated 1.3 million patients in need of eye surgery, and has educated hundreds of children who otherwise would be too poor to afford a formal education.

It’s important to always remember that in a country like India, which makes global news for its explosive wealth, there remains an enormous underclass that does not benefit from the new economy.  Literally hundreds of millions still struggle here, with children, women and the elderly often bearing the brunt of the suffering.

Well, I have a buttload of work to get done now.  Enough preaching.   I’m busy uploading what few photos I managed to snap during this trip, so in a couple of hours please visit my Flickr site to see them.  See ya!

Bangalore, 1:pm

Greetings from India’s glorious south.  I’m in the famous Karnataka city of Bangalore or, as it’s now known, Bengaluru.  I really can’t keep up with all these Indian name changes.

I’m staying at a quaint and quiet “cottage” at the centre of this small, but bustling city.  For a mere 1600 rupees a night, I get an immaculately clean room with a king sized bed, private Western bathroom (with a real functioning shower with reliable holt & cold water, both of which are a big deal), free wifi and cable TV.  I opted for no air conditioning, and I’m pleased that I did.  With just a fan, the nights here are a little chilly.

The first thing I noticed during the drive in from the airport was a particularly hideous woman winking at the truck drivers.  Wait… that’s no woman!  It’s a hijra!  That’s right.  Remember, India is, I believe, the only country that allows a third gender on its passports: eunuch.

Entering the city from the suburbs, I was struck by the sight of gorgeous, ornate orange and white Hindu temples…. with clothes lines strung between them!  Hey, whatever works.

Further in town was a giant billboard of Canadian comedia Colin Mochrie!  I assume one of his shows is appearing here.  I wonder if he knows that his image towers over India’s silicon valley?

I’m reminded of another disturbing image I saw in Bombay: a billboard put up by GQ India proclaiming the most influential Indians in the world.  On the top five list were Salman Rushdie, Fareed Zakaria and… wait for it… Russell Peters.  Yes, Russell Peters.  Hey, good for him.

In a store I saw another disturbing ad, a giant poster for the clothing company “Urban Yoga”.  Its tagline? “Spiritual active wear.”  And yes, it’s just basic sports clothes.  If you know me, you know why that turns my stomach.

The first night in city I went out for drinks with my old friend JJ and some of his friends.  We were at a bar called “Opus”.  Interestingly, the staff were wearing jerseys with the number 8 on them.  Why?  Because someone figured that “opus” must be short for “octopus”.  Seriously.

I learned then of Bangalore’s new fundamentalism.  Like Bombay in Maharashtra, Bangalore finds itself ruled at the state level by a right wing, fundamentalist Hindu government.  Their edicts include a curfew at 11:30pm –that means no food or beverage service anywhere after that time. The edict includes a dress code for women who work in bars and –get this– a rule against dancing.  Yes, dancing!  It’s like living in the movie Footloose!

At Opus, I was surprised and pleased to find an Indian hard rock band doing excellent covers of songs by Black Sabbath, Pearl Jam, Pink Floyd, ACDC and others.  I say surprised not because rock music is supposedly transgressive in a conservative culture, but because, as one Indian pointed out, the youth of modern India are not turning to the West for their cultural cues.  Rather, they seem proudly content to revel in strictly home grown, Indian cultural content, from Indian music to Indian films to even Indian fashions.

Still, here’s a sample of the band playing.  It’s also interesting to note the conversation happening in the foreground.  I believe it’s about recreational drugs, but I refuse to either confirm or deny that possibility.  Sorry for both the audio and video quality.

At one point during the performance, one particularly sexy young woman stood up and –gasp– danced!  It was only for a few moments, so the morality police didn’t have to show up.  But suddenly I understood the fundamentalists.  She had only gyrated for a few seconds, but my thoughts had certainly turned immoral.  Dancing is evil, I say!  Evil!

The next night I spent with a new friend, AP, who took me to dinner atop one of Bangalore’s highrise restaurants. It was at the end of that lovely evening that the first twinges of “Bangalore Belly” struck.  I barely made it back to my room in time.  Memories of the gastric hell that befell me on my first trip to India, 14 years ago, haunted me.  Was this the start of a multi-day Hell?  But no, some chewable Immodium later and I was ready for my flight to Goa.  But was Goa Gut in my future?

Goa, 10:30pm

Greetings from the International Centre Goa, a hotel on the campus of the University of Goa.

Want to hear something a little weird?  I pre-paid for a hotel near the beach downtown, via Expedia.ca.  Then I received an email telling me that the university had already pre-paid for a room for me at the ICG.  Then, upon arriving at the beach hotel, I was told that there was no room, and that they had made arrangements for me at another hotel.

In essence, for the first time in my life, I’ve arrived in a new place to discover that I’d been registered in THREE hotels.  The plan is to spend one night here on the gorgeous and huge campus, give my two lectures in the morning, then spend my remaining two days in the beach-y hotel downtown.

My old friend SM is being a very gracious host here in Goa.  I’ve already had my first taste of Feni, and have walked along the beach to take in the angry skies and the angrier waves.

See, it’s Monsoon season, so almost all of the White tourists are gone.  Instead, the place is filled with (non-Goan) Indians.  They seem to all be men. I’m told that they come here for the cheap alcohol and for the opportunity to cheat on their wives.  Based on what I think I’m seeing, maybe they’re cheating with each other!

I haven’t had a chance to update this blog in a couple of days, so let me say a few things about my last day in Bombay a while back.  First off, I had an excellent meeting with the clinic I’d come to India to see, and I think a research partnership might not be far away.

Then another friend, PS, showed me the Bombay animal hospital and her own cat sanctuary.  For many Indians, dogs are tolerated 4-legged urchins, but cats are pests akin to rats.  It was heartbreaking to see so many ill and abused animals, but also heartwarming to see that some people were eager to take care of them.

Later that night, another new friend, PD (a Bombay film producer; what better guide to the city can there be?) took me out to a trendy bar in Bandra, then drove me home at 2:AM through the erie but gorgeously abandoned streets of Bombay at nighttime.  We passed a silent parade of residents, walking many miles to the Ganesh temple.  Apparently this is done every week on Monday nights, since the thing to do is to arrive at the temple at dawn on a Tuesday morning.  It sounds simple, but it’s really a remarkable sight, a touch of the pious and the ancient in the heart of the bustling engine of modern India.

Ahh, Bombay, you elusive tease.

During my visit to Bandra earlier in the day, I took some time to walk along the promenade on Carter street, which overlooks the angry sea.  It’s a special place where young couples go to steal kisses in a conservative society.  They do so in hilarious fashion, hiding in bushes or behind umbrellas or both.  I tried to get a photo on my cell phone of two pairs of feet protruding from behind a large umbrella shield, but my hand slipped.  Sorry.

But I decided then to take a few more photos of the promenade.  Hey, this was my first real tourist moment of the trip!  Enjoy.

The dog park on the Carter promenade in Bombay. The sign implores owners to pick up SHIT. Not feces, not poop. SHIT.

Silly Hindus. Always throwing things into the sea.

Near the Bombay animal hospital, this public water tap is used by the poor and homeless as their primary source of clean water.

The angry sea by the Carter promenade in Bombay.

Dead rat in Bombay. Yum.

This bench was donated by the children of a dead woman "in loving memory" of their mother. Bet they never thought it would be a dog's bed.

Sorry for the fuzzy pic; it was raining. On the left you can see the edge of an umbrella, behind with a couple steals a smooch.

Duelling benches. On one, "Hare Ram, Hare Krishan {sic}". On the other, "Allah-uh Akbar." Both ironic and hopeful in Bombay.

The central shrine of the Bombay animal hospital

A touching scene. The cat on the bottom is terminally ill with weeks to live. The one on top showers her with endless affection.

PS, the woman who runs the cat sanctuary in the Bombay animal hospital, holds up a blind cat.

One of the cats in the Bombay cat sanctuary

Cats in the Bombay cat sanctuary