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Howdy, my name is Wade and I'm a traveler. For the past eight years I have been wandering this here planet. Nearly 40 countries on five continents. What follows are my impressions of the world as I travel through it-
The musings of the Wanderlust.

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December 30, 2007

Driving in France

Driving in France

I have been driving a car in France for the past month. This was the first country outside of the USA that I ever had to drive in, and, I must say, it has been a learning experience. The car that I am driving here is a broken down Euro-edition Ford jaloppy that is falling apart on all fronts. The alignment is perilously off-kilter, some of the gears don't work, it has a sensitive clutch, and squeaks from all corners. My friends purchased this vehicle from an Arab who they took to be honest, as he was friends with their cousin. He told them that it ran great and had no problems. I will let you make the judgment call here.

The traffic police in France are resplendent of the Third Reich, and my friend lost her license after a number of shadily recorded traffic violations. You see, the police in France do not stop and pull over violators of traffic rules; rather, they take a photo of a license plate and mail a bill to the registered address. So you could be driving for a week or two and have no idea that you wrapped up a collection of speeding tickets. The costs of these fines are also astronomical and the police do not give much of a speed buffer either- my friend received a $100 ticket for going 4 km over the speed limit 10 minutes after she got a speeding ticket for going 10 over. Two speeding tickets in less than 10 minutes. Over a $200 fine.

I wonder how many traffic tickets I racked up? Is it even legal for me to drive here?

Now I learned to drive on the organized, straight highways of the USA. The roadways of France are anything but straight forward. France is an old culture and the cities and villages were not made for automobile traffic. The streets here wind, dip, dive, and turn without apparent rhyme or reason. I have been driving here for the past month, and I am just now beginning to get the hang of it.


But I still always go the wrong way. It is just what I do.

If I am presented with a choice between the right way and wrong way, I will always go the wrong way. I kind of like my directional sense. To go the right way insinuates that you know where you are going. I have no idea where this path will lead me. I find excitement in getting lost, in going the wrong way. I want to go in the exact opposite direction than what I set out in. It is simply more interesting this way. Who wants to know where they are going anyway?

There are many intersection circles here where the traffic has to drive around the circle to make turns. At first, I thought that these were very stupid and I began to feel a little pride about the straightness and right angles inherent to driving in the USA. I hated those darn traffic circles and could not figure them out. I would often try to go straight through one but somehow end up in a parking lot, on another road, or lost in the French countryside in the middle of the night. But after a month of driving in France, I realize that these circles are a really good idea. I have gotten use to them. They make it unnecessary to come to a complete stop before making a turn, which not only makes it slightly easier to turn, but greatly reduces the risk of being railed from behind while sitting at stop signs in the countryside.

I like traffic circles. They annoyed me at first, but I have now discovered their merit.

This was kind of like coming to terms with another culture. Often times the first taste of a new culture is not too sweet . . .they sometimes seem to not make any sense. But after a month of confusion they begin to make a little sense. You can start seeing through the door to the other side. The point where different cultural practices no longer seem stupid is a sure sign that you are learning.

To learn and accept other cultures is one of the most interesting aspects of traveling. This process is sometimes a lot of work. makes no sense, and can even be a long, hard road. The moment you wake up and realize that it is you who are stupid- and not the traffic circles- is the moment that you can really begin to accept the world as it is.

For more photos from France please go to Photographs from the Open Road's France Photos

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 30, 2007

December 29, 2007

Tattoos in Chile and Friends

Tattoos in Chile and Friends

"No hay mal que por bien no venga."

There is no bad from which good does not come.
-Old Latin American adage

I have not been with my Chilean friends since those fateful days I was tramping around South America. In Santiago, goods and amenities are divided into their own towering buildings by their particular attributes. Therefore, if you want underwear you just go to the building that only sells underwear and you will find hundreds of stores vending the same pairs of panties. These buildings are kind of like small shopping malls where all the shops only sell the same type of good.

A very simple way of shopping, I say, for people who are just out to buy underwear.

Well, the tattoo studios, underground record stores, and heavy metal t-shirt shops in Santiago are divided along these same lines and, likewise, have their own little mall. It is in the district of Providencia, and entering it is like coming into some kind of heavy metal roost of the underworld. Tattoo parlors upon tattoo parlors are only interrupted by the occasional record store.

I entered into this dark pit of Santiago’s sub-culture a young, long-haired, sapling of a traveler. I was in the market for a tattoo and was told that this was the place to find an artist. As I walked through the doors, I realized that I had been directed to the correct location.

So I began walking past the tattoo studios trying to get a feel for the quality of tattoo art in Santiago, Chile. The shops were arranged around a square around a central corridor and a ramp winded the way up past the storefronts like a screw. As I walked by these tattoo studios I looked at all the photos of the artist’s work that hung on display in the windows. The first five tattoo studios did not seem to do very good work, so I walked on up the ramp to the second and then the third floor of the building. At this point, I did not find a tattoo studio that stood out as being particularly good or inviting.

I soon found myself at the doorstep of Pablo Barrios tattoo shop. The photos displaying his work passed my inspection criteria, so I walked in to talk to him. I found a bald guy inside tattooing some stupid design on the lower back of a blond with big tits, tiny waist, and a big ass. She could have stepped out of a bikini magazine and I would not have been the wiser.

It was more than apparent that Pablo Barrios was far too interested in his rather sexy client to bother with some chump 21 year old gringo. I stood there for around ten minutes staring at him before he looked up from the blond’s rather plump rear section to notice me.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“A tattoo.”

He then flung me one of his portfolios and promptly went back to the ass.

I realized then that I was not beautiful enough to be tattooed by this dick.

So I slipped unnoticed out of his studio and was just about to give up my tattoo hunt, when I noticed that there was one last tattoo parlor a little further up the ramp. I stood in indecision for a moment, but then figured that it would not hurt to check out this last shop.

It was called Cuerpo Orgulloso Tattoo, and it seem to have something about it that was a little different than the rest of the tattoo studios in the building. I looked at the tattoo photos in the window for a moment and, please at what I found, entered upon a scene that was far different than the other shops. People were all sitting around joking and laughing with each other, smiles greeted my entry, and the happy hum of tattoo machines resounded over this jovial setting. I was immediately meet warmly by the receptionist as she quickly engaged me in some in-depth conversation about politics or something. I was made a friend in an instant and the artist agreed to tattoo me after he was finished with his other clients. This was how I met Sergio Villagran and his wife JessieAnne.

Small plastic cups of chicha soon began falling first into my hands, and then into my belly. Friends were made and a new tattoo was stamped upon my hide. We celebrated.

I then left the studio and returned to Cuerpo Orgulloso Tattoo a month later with Erik the Pilot for another bout of tattooing and friends . . . Chilean style.

Over the five intervening years since I said farewell to these friends on a daybreak Santiago city bus after a long night, I have not forgotten them for an instant.

I have been visiting them at their home in the South of France for the past month.

And now, good readers, you know how I met these friends from Chile, so I can carry on with my yarn.

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 29, 2007

December 28, 2007

New Vagabond Journey.com Newsletter

New Vagabond Journey.com Newsletter

Howdy Folks,

This is Wade, the jovial directionless editor of this Song of the Open Road Travel Blog, and I just wanted to let you know that I am putting together a monthly newsletter to act as a supplement to this travel blog and the Vagabond Journey.com website.

In each monthly installment of this newsletter will be an update of my recent voyages around the world, the announcement of a new traveler poll (this month about Swiss Army Knives), a travel tip, an interview with a long-term traveler, and a Vagabond Community News Update.

Sign up for the Vagabond Journey free newsletter in the sidebar navigation of this page (near the top of the page on the left hand side just below the traveler poll . . . it is the box that says Topica and asks for your email address).


Thanks!


and as ever . . .

Walk Slow,

Wade

Epidemic in France

Epidemic in France

According to the Chinese calendar, this is the year of the Fire Pig: a year for epidemics, famine, and plague. Right now in the South of France over a million people are in the hospital with a virus that has been spread around to almost every person in this region. The hospitals have now closed their doors- there are no more beds, no free doctors, they are packed to standing room only capacity- and the people are left to fend off this epidemic on their own.

I awoke a couple of days ago to a very ill household here in Anduze. Mira, the three children, and their father were all horridly ill. It was like an infirmary. I discovered that I was not really affected by this illness and just found a quiet spot away from the sick people to abscond. I uneasily let the day pass in front of the computer screen, trying to ignore the rapturous groans from the other room.

Luckily, this epidemic is not very serious. It is just a gastro-intestinal virus that hits hard for a day or two and then passes. There is also a strand of bronchitis going around that seems to be slightly more serious.

The amazing thing here is that this virus spread to nearly everyone in the South of France within a couple of days. It was an enthralling experience to comprehend how thoroughly and quickly and illness can strike down an entire population. For a day, it was as if the plague had struck. Nobody was in the streets, the town was empty, and only the moans of the ill could be heard. It is truly possible for a virus to cut down millions of people in this modern age.

I now have a defacto impression of the potential impact of epidemics.

From the Wellspring Astrolog:
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The Chinese Fire Pig symbol (Fire over Water) contains a special character that forms an accelerant. The year has potential for situations to gather speed; to burn out of control.

In Chinese astrology, clashes of Fire & Water have powerful, uncontrollable effects, while transformation takes place. Situations flare up quickly and propel out of control.

The Water element denotes clandestine affairs, 'behind the scenes', danger. It can indicate physical floods & large scale water problems - potential for extensive damage and destruction.

Fire Pig has harmonious elements, but harmony is lost when situations are out of control. Fire Pig years have been fraught with incidents: wars, political takeovers, enormous unrest.
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The year of the Fire Pig does not end until the 8th of February. There is still time for this year to spiral out of control. The Chinese learned of their environment through centuries of close observation. They believe in such signs.

From what I witnessed here in the South of France, I can see the pertinence behind such warnings. I remember when I was studying Traditional Chinese Medicine in Hangzhou, China earlier this year how afraid my professor was of the Fire Pig. He prophesied world-wide famine, epidemic, and strife. I looked into his eyes, and realized that he really was afraid. His belief was enough to even set me a little off-kilter.

So far, I do not think the expectations of year of the Fire Pig has fully panned out. But from what I witness of this epidemic of a slightly minor virus in France, I know that these next two months could actualize these warnings.

Epidemics move quickly. It was amazing to watch one in action.

Frightening, I must say.

Wade from VagabondJourney.com
Anduze, France
December 28, 2007

December 26, 2007

Done Waiting for the Big Day

Done Waiting for the Big Day

I realize now that web traffic is earned, not won.

I am learning this the hard way. To create a good travel website is one thing, to get people to go to it is quite another. I have read the books on Search Engine optimization, I have studied the tricks of the trade, and I only learned that attracting web traffic is a lot of work. I am only a pubescent newbie on this internet ship, but I now know that this project is perhaps the deepest black hole that I have jumped into yet. One question answered just leads me to ten more.

I love big projects.

Maintaining a website is an everyday task, and almost takes a certain degree of obsessiveness to keep up with it and the latest search engine standards, rules, and regulations. To slack for even a couple of days, is to watch your web traffic plummet. I am thinking now that a few month break from traveling so that I can get the Vagabond Journey.com site in good order could be extremely beneficial.

This is a real job. It is plain and simple. I need $400- $500 a month to continue this tramp around the world. That is not much money. If I could catch this from the websites, I would be flying high.

Even though I will still always be working. A website is not for the lazy. I figure that I generally put in 4-8 hour shifts a day creating, researching, and writing webpages. I do not mind working this much. I enjoy doing work for myself.

I love big projects.

I use to think that something would break and one day I would check my site meter to find that I am attracting 1,000 visitors to my site a day. This probably will not happen soon. But if I keep at it, I think that I will get close, and, someday, may even get beyond this number.

I have been getting more and more traffic regularly, but it has been an uphill battle all the way.

Mira figures that, under usual circumstances, you get around one visitor a day for ever five pages that you put up. This does not really go off of any mathematical principle, but it seems to be correct. Therefore, if you have fifty pages, you will get around 10 unique visitors, 500 pages gets you 100, 5000 attracts 1000, and 50,000 nets you 10,000 people. Like Chinese medicine, this is based off nothing other than observation. I am now getting between 100 and 140 unique visitors a day. This is nothing. Though it is more than what I was getting. I am doing something right; I am working hard; I enjoy this.

This is kind of like fishing. I design the tackle, bait the hook, toss it out into a good lily pond over a sink hole, and wait for the fish. Right now I am still waiting. I am now getting a few nibbles . . . soon, I think I will set the hook.

I think it is now about time to go on another link hunting campaign. Webpages are ranked and defined by the number, quality, and type of back-links that lead to them. It is a very annoying process trying to get people to link your site and something that I do not really like doing. Simply put, I feel like a schumuck asking people for links and leaving faux comments on blogs only to sign off with my URL. I have just about given up on the above two methods for getting links. If I leave a comment, I mean it.

Oh yeah, feel free to link www.VagabondJourney.com or the Song of the Open Road Travel blog hehehe.

I have just began putting some posts and articles up for syndication on some other websites in order to spread my URL around a little. I realized that various sites are just taking this information without my approval anyway, so I may as well just give it away haha. I threw a few articles that I wrote in India and China over to Ezinearticles.com and I am just waiting to find out what will come of it. I just wonder what the effects search engine regulations against content duplication has on article syndication. It is my understanding that if you have pages with duplicate content on the same site, the search engines will recognize only one page and ignore the duplicates, but if the duplicate content is on different sites the search engines will pick and index them both. . . even though the content is the same. Therefore, it is fine to syndicate articles across the internet without fear that your site will be penalized by the search engines for using duplicate content.

But I have received contrary information to this by some pretty informed travelers, and I have yet to really figure it out. Does anybody really know about this? Does syndicating articles invite search engine penalties?

There is a lot to this stuff. Prior to diving into this pit, I though that I could just write, publish, and be read. It is not that simple. There is a lot to know, and I think I like learning about it.

Ultimately, I write these websites because I love doing it. If it pays off, then I will have the time and gravity to work on these sites some more. But if it doesn’t then I will still continue on with the same exuberance. If this was not fun, I would not do it.

Goals and ambitions are solely for the pure enjoyable jest of it anyway. This is all a joke, you know.

I love big projects.

I love big jokes.

And I am finished waiting for the big day.

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 26, 2007

Christmas in France

Christmas in France

Passed Christmas in France with friends from Chile. It was a real warm time as I watched their three children open their presents. They yelled and screamed with excitement and kissed and hugged the newly minted pink plastic toys that they freshly unwrapped. Christmas in France was really nice. Mira and I gave the children plastic fish and dinosaurs. The little boy now walks around the house all day trying to hang on to all of them at the same time. He asked his mother this morning if she could buy him a pair of pants with pockets big enough to accommodate all of his fish and dinosaur toys, so that wherever he goes, he will have his toys. The kid is a traveler! I exclaim. This may be my next travel tip- “How to make pockets big enough to carry all of your toys.” Haha.

My friends are from Chile and they celebrate the “Santa Clause” aspect of Christmas a little differently than we do in the USA. In Chile, all of a child’s presents come from Santa, while, in the USA, some of the gifts come from Santa and the rest from parents, friends, etc . . . I suppose us Norte Americanos have some objection to giving all of the gift-giving credit to an old, fat man. But the Chilean way is pretty interesting, and is probably more in line with the origins of the Christmas tradition. It is just really funny that the children believe that their parents had absolutely nothing to do with their gifts. “Mom, why can’t you be more like Santa Claus?,” they ask. The parents get tongue-tied, as their own tradition and graciousness comes back to bite them. We laugh.

Oh, another Christmas passes. I have been on the Road for a long time, but I think that this is actually only the third Christmas that I have not been with my family. The first I was in Peru in '01, the second was last year in China, and now this year in France. I often try to time my visits back to the USA so that they correspond with Christmas. My mother loves for me to be there. Being away from my family for so long is the biggest drawback to being a traveler. As traveling and family life are slightly mutually exclusive. But now there are many new devices to enable us travelers to remain a little closer to our families. Skype, Truphone on Facebook (has a few mild catches), and other services now allow us the ability to call home whenever we want for a surprisingly marginal amount of money, email has enabled us to get letters delivered quickly, and these blogs and websites allow us to tell the world what we are doing, thinking, and feeling. Now is probably one of the best times in world history to be a traveler. But I must take Loren Everly’s position when I say that I do not think that it can last much longer. Something has to give. Us travelers will soon find ourselves walking down the hard road before we know it. Enjoy the world and the ease of travel now I say, as tomorrow we may be trodding down a different path, while humming a far more perilous tune.
So it was Christmas. Sent Merry Christmas emails and made phone calls to family and Erik the Pilot. Just remembered that I did not send Stubbs my regard.

Stubbs is one of my best friends. He understands. This is one of the great things about real friends: if you do not call them on the holidays, they do not get upset. This is because they know that we are truly friends, and we do not have to prove it. You do not even have to talk to your friends to regard them as such. But I miss Stubbs. I think I want to talk to the guy soon. Maybe I will go into the woods and track him soon. Or perhaps I can coerce him into a mad three months in Brooklyn with me?

Christmas in France. Quiet. Empty. Drunken. Ideal. Christmas is for children. They know the world because they can still believe.

Chateau de Tornac XIIE outside of Anduze, France

I still believe in fairy tales.

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 26, 2007

December 23, 2007

The Dancing Hitchhiker Video

The Dancing Hitchhiker Video

After standing on the side of a highway in France for a touch longer than she fancied, Mira from WanderjahrJill came up with a new way to get a ride:

Dancing

That is right, not even a little leg show or burly old me hiding in the bushes was going to get these French drivers to stop, but Mira dancing, and the both of us laughing and having a good time, was just the ticket to warming a Frenchman's heart in winter.

So Mira took off her hobo hat and stoic glare and cut a rug right on the side of the highway. And it worked. Withing minutes we had four different offers to take us in the opposite direction than we were traveling. A few minutes later we landed a ride in a sleek sports car going straight to the city that we after.

This may seem odd, but who would want to pick up a couple of grumpy old hitchhikers? My travel advice: if you want a ride, make the drivers laugh. People pick up hitchhikers not just out of the kindness of their hearts, but also because they want a story, some one to talk to, an adventure, to laugh, or because they are just bored. To make yourself seem like a humorous chap while thumbing it is a sure way to hitchhike across the planet with assurance . . . and laughs.

The Dancing Hitchhiker Video is below:



Notice how she stopped dancing for the truck drivers . . . Wanderjahr Jill did not want to advertise anything other than her dancing ability. haha.

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 23, 2007

December 22, 2007

In Montpellier France

In Montpellier France

Montpellier seemed to be a decent place to walk around for a day. . . Or ride the tram. I think buying an all-day pass on a city train system and just riding around at random all day is now one of my favorite things to do. You never know where you are going to end up. I like this feeling. We ended up in the outskirts of the city in an area that was largely Muslim.

It is interesting to me how large the Muslim populations are that surround every major city in Southern France. Mira and I went into a KFC in the outskirts of Nimes to use the bathroom and it was completely full of Muslims. I thought that I was back in Morocco for a moment.

In Montpellier, Mira and I just road the tram and loafed about the city eating loafs of cheap bread. Old, Old and made of stone is Montpellier. I could just imagine the stories that must breathe out of the cracks in these cobblestone streets. Montpellier was a nice terminus to our short hitch-hiking journey.
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From the Wikipedia

Montpellier came to prominence in the 10th century as a trading centre, with trading links across the Mediterranean world and a rich Jewish cultural life and traditions of tolerance of its Muslims, Jews and Cathars— and later of its Protestants. William VII of Montpellier established a faculty of medicine in 1180, recognised by Pope Nicholas IV; the city's university was established in 1220 and was one of the chief centers for the teaching of medicine. This marked the high point of Montpellier's prominence. The city became a possession of the kings of Aragon in 1213 by the marriage of Peter II of Aragon with Marie of Montpellier, who brought the city as her dowry. Montpellier gained a charter in 1204 when Peter and Marie confirmed the city's traditional freedoms and granted the city the right to choose twelve governing consuls annually. Montpellier remained a possession of the crown of Aragon until it passed to James III of Majorca, who sold the city to the French king Philip VI in 1349, to raise funds for his ongoing struggle with Peter IV of Aragon.
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Hmm . . .I suppose people could just sell cities then. Imagine that. I know of a few cities that should be sold.

Photograph of downtown Montpellier

For more Photos of Montpellier, France please go to Montpellier Photographs

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 22, 2007

Hitch-Hiking in France Part 2

Hitch-Hiking in France Part 2

To read the first part of this European hitch-hiking story please go to Hitch-Hiking to Andorra in Winter

Mira and I walked on from the highway junction that lead to Ales towards Nimes. We just tramped in the glorious French countryside and figured that if we would not get far hitch-hiking, we would at least hike. We had everything that we needed- three sleeping bags and enough clothing- to sleep the night outside, so we cared not where we ventured to. We just about gave up the idea of hitching to Andorra, when a car came to a quick halt next to us and offered a ride to Nimes.

We were back in the saddle again.

So we jumped into the car and introduced ourselves to the driver. His name was Yannick and could speak a little English.

“English was my favorite subject in school,” he said, “everything else, I did not learn.”

So Mira and I gave him a good ol’ English lesson as we rode on to Nimes. Yannick proved to be as hospitable guy as he seemed and he offered his place up for us to stay at for as long as we wanted. If Mira knew the cold night that was in store for her, she may have jumped at this offer.

Photograph of Mira with Yannick

Our Camp in a culvert next to the highway

But we were again set on making it to Andorra, and quickly set out to get a little food and find the highway once in Nimes. This task proved arduous as we had to walk across the entire city in order to find the on-ramp to the highway. A couple of hours slipped by, and it was near evening before we found it.

Once there, we walked up to the toll booths and began hitch-hiking.

Zoom, zoom, the cars flew by without scarcely noticing us.

I tried to hide in the bushes, so that the drivers would think that Mira was a poor little girl wandering alone, but she only received the interests of sleazy looking truck drivers, and we decided to give up this pursuit.

Then Mira started dancing.

“Stop dancing!” I yelled between bouts of laughter. “Nobody wants to pick up a dancing hitch-hiker!”

She refused to stop dancing.

We begin wrestling a little. I was trying anything that I could think of to just make her stop dancing, but she persevered and kept dancing on. We are laughing and having a really good time at this point and pretty much forgot all about the task of hitching a lift.

Then something odd happened:

The cars began to stop.

Four different vehicles full of laughing French people stopped to offer us rides to Marseille, which was the opposite direction from which we were traveling. We turned these rides down as we still wanted to make Andorra, but the dancing hitch-hiker graft was really working.

Mira kept dancing, and a passing sports car almost immediately ground to a halt to pick us up. We decided to just get inside and go wherever the driver was going. If we go to Marseille, then we will continue on to Italy . . . if we go to Montpellier, then we keep on to Andorra. Surprisingly, the driver was going to Montpellier, and we got a ride all the way there.

Mira sat in the front seat and did not say a word to our host for the entire time. I think she may have creeped him out a little. Especially since she kept peaking behind and whispering to me in the back seat. I began feeling like a real weirdo, sitting in someone else’s car in stone cold silence, but I could not restrain a little laugh at our discomfort. I tried to get Mira to introduce herself to the driver, but she just giggled shyly and refused. Finally, I muttered something in French from the back seat, and was surprisingly understood. We now knew each others names, and that was all we needed as we rode forth to Montpellier.

We had the driver let us out by the highway on-ramp, and waved a big good bye. We were now in the dusk of this day and light was quickly fading. We walked up the other side of the highway ramp and stuck out our thumbs for one last chance at making Andorra before day’s end.

We were not in the best place for hitch-hiking, as there was way too much traffic going a little to quickly. But we stood with our thumbs out and hoped for the best.

And we got the worst.

The ugliest woman in Europe soon swaggered up to the highway with a mass of luggage. It became apparent that she was also hitch-hiking, so I offered a friendly wave. The ugliest woman in Europe then flew into a rage and began screaming at us to go away. Hitch-hiking is sometimes very competitive in Europe, and we had to make it clear to the ugliest woman in Europe that we were going to stand our ground, and she began yelling at us with a new found intensity. She wave her arms, contorted her already ugly face, and shot us every rude gesture that she could think of while screeching about how hitch-hiking is prohibited. We soon grew weary of this ugly lady yelling at us, so I attempted to look tough and told her to go fuck herself.

She went away.


The ugliest woman in Europe soon got picked up by a truck driver, and I can only imagine what she ate for dinner that night.

Photograph of Montpellier

After waving goodbye to the ugliest woman in Europe, Mira and I got the feeling that we were not going to get out of Montpellier that night. So we then began looking for a place to camp out on the sly. It would be cold that night, so we walked into the shopping district on the outskirts of the city to try to get some tentative warmth by hanging out in a department store. We found and Ikea and got really lost inside of it. But we came out with a bottle of Christmas Glog (a Swedish spiced cinnamon wine) and drank it heartily as we trod on through the night.

We went looking for suitable place to sleep by the highway, but only found brush, briars, and burrs. We debated just laying out the sleeping bags and ignoring it all, but the brush proved to be a little too much. So Mira and I went across to the other side of the highway to find out how we would fare there. We soon found a good little sleeping place on the lee side of a culvert, and bedding down.

The next morning, after a sleepless night of freezing, Mira was not in the mood for hitch-hiking any more. Even though I slept soundly that night, I understood. I did not want to bring my cold little woman into the even colder Pyrenees Mountains. So we called off this hitch-hiking voyage for the time being and set off for a day of lazily walking about Montpellier.

More photos from France can be found at Photographs from the Open Road France Photos

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 22, 2007

December 21, 2007

Hitch-Hiking to Andorra in Winter Part 1

Hitch-Hiking to Andorra in Winter Part 1

It can be said that all adventures begin with a bad idea. As such, this plan to hitch-hike to Andorra from Anduze, France in the beginning of winter was hashed.

I do not how this happened. For some reason I have always wanted to go to Andorra. I have been told that it is nothing but a giant shopping outlet and the only reason to go there would be to purchase tax-free commodities, but I am still drawn there for some odd reason.

Perhaps it is because it is a small country? I like small countries, especially one that is nested in the middle of giant Spain and giant France. Perhaps it is because Richard Halliburton stuck a real homely image of the country in my mind when he wrote of traveling through Andorra in, The Royal Road to Romance:

“Your people seem supremely content.” [stated Halliburton to the president of Andorra]

“Yes, it is true. It is true because we have nothing with which to contrast what we think is happiness.”

I have always wanted to test this statement, as I must harbor reservations about its validity in this world of strip-malls and commerce. But maybe, just maybe, there are some of these old-time Andorran valleys where the people rest content. Maybe this is my great draw to this rather odd travel destination.

Or maybe I just like the shape of Andorra?

Hitch-Hiking to Andorra with Mira from Wanderjahr Jill

Whatever is the reason, I have always tried making it to Andorra with little success. The last time that I tried to go there was in the spring of 2003, and I did not quite make it. I did not even know that Andorra was a country until I was relatively near it. Don’t know why I did not step in then. I guess this is just the way that I do things.

But Wednesday morning I was convinced that I would make it to Andorra by hook or by crook . . . or thumb. So Mira and I packed up a rucksack with three sleeping bags and all of the clothing that we had, bided a quick farewell to our friend and her children, bought two loafs of bread and a corner of cheese from the supermarket, and stepped out onto the south road out of town.

Before we were even able to stick our thumbs out we were picked up by a lady in a red car. We jumped in and, not being able to speak any French, just muttered something about going to Nimes (the next city). The lady surprised us by being able to communicate using a little English.

I fail to believe that the French are the only people in Western Europe who do not speak any English. I just cannot believe it. I find it far more likely that they just do not want to speak English to a foreigner in their own country- a sentiment that I can almost understand. They seem a little bitter that French- which was once a proud world language- is now only the lingua franca of France (well, and a hosts of African countries). “You are in France, you should speak French,” I have heard some French people snicker to more than a few beleaguered tourists (me). I hold my tongue at this, as I know that I will have lots of vengeful laughs when I see non-Anglo speaking French travelers trying in vain to travel on their French alone. But, none the less, I have found that more French people can communicate in English than let on.

I think the best way to make a French person speak English is to try to speak French so horridly that they try to stop the auditory onslaught by speaking English. I speak French horribly. I simply cannot make the sounds, or get the rhythm of the language. I tried to learn a little in Morocco, and figured that I would pick it up pretty quickly as I have been studying other languages for a long time. I did pick it up quickly in fact, but I also found that I could not pronounce the words at all. I knew immediately that I would not ever be able to speak this language, so called off the attempt.

You see, my tongue is really, really small. Seriously, this may sound as if I am trying to be funny, but I am not. I can hardly even stick my tongue out of my mouth. It is small. To make matters worse, my tongue is not only minuscule, but fat. It is the shortest, fattest thing that I have ever seen. Trying to speak languages like French just makes my poor fat and small tongue feel like a dwarf competing in the Olympics: I make a start, stutter, garble, and then trip and fall on my face. This is a problem that I have always had with learning new languages. I found that I am better sticking to languages that do not have any sounds that are different than in English- languages like Chinese Mandarin.

But anyway, I sit in the front seat of our first ride of our great hitch-hiking voyage, and I garbled my primed and pruned French introduction so badly that the lady stopped me in my tracks with English. Thanks goodness. So we talked a little bit about how beautiful the South of France is as she gave us a ride to the next town.

Mira and I jumped out of her car feeling really good. Our journey had begun, and we had but to walk to the road to start it. Now we were in the country-side at an intersection with out thumbs stuck out in the air. We stood there for only a few moments before our next ride stopped.

The driver was a man who was going to Ales- a town that was not on our route. But he offered to take use down the road to the intersection of the road to Nimes. We heartily agreed. So we got into his car, Mira in the front, and we had a silent ride three kilometers down the road.

Mira says that she is shy. I never really believed her before, but during this day of hitch-hiking I am beginning to doubt myself. Mira and I would alternate who would sit in the front seat of the vehicle for each ride. When I would ride in front, I would try- somehow- to make conversation, even if it is just for the purpose of breaking the ice so that our drivers do not think that we are creepy. I think that this is just common courtesy. Mira doesn’t seem to think so.

When Mira sat in the front seat with the drivers she would hardly mutter a word. Seriously, it was almost hilarious. Not even a pale “Bonjour” would emit from her lips. She would just sit in the car, ride to our stop, and then get out- all without breaking her inner solitude. It was amazing. It was creepy. Mira now proved to me that she is shy.

It is my opinion that people do not just pick up hitch-hikers solely to help them out, but to find out about them, to hear a story, to tell a story, to ask advice, to have sex (seriously), or just to keep them company. I have had many wild conversations with strangers because I feel as if it is awkward to sit in a vehicle with someone that I do not know without saying anything. Mira does not seem to feel more awkward talking.

So, to get back to the story, we were riding to the intersection of the road to Nimes in eerie silence. We soon came to a stop and the driver pointed out the route of our destination. We thanked him and jumped out of his car. It was a relief to be on the side of the cold highway again. I laughed at Mira for being so shy.

“What do you want me to say?” she said laughing. “We don’t speak the same language!”

I suppose she had a point.

So Mira and I were back on the road with our thumbs sticking out. It was a cold, silent day. The kind of day where the coldness is as hard as ice and nothing dares to move. I am a northern boy who grew up on the US/ Canada border: this was my kind of weather. So I waited with a jolly grin on my face until I felt a slight pang of hunger. I opened my bag to take out the bread that we bought at the supermarket.

It was not there.

I asked Mira if she had it.

No.

“Where is our bread!” I exclaimed.

Mira did not know.

Like a couple of dummies, we lost our food somewhere between buying it and leaving the store. Mira found this to be hilarious. My empty stomach screamed out in anger. I was hungry, standing on the side of the highway in the middle of back country France.

“Just laugh about it, its funny,” Mira wisely urged.

“I don’t feel like laughing!” I roared.

Then I laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more.

We bought not one, but two loaves of good French bread just to leave them in the store where they came from. We had no food.
But we now had something to laugh about.

I travel around the world just doing silly things. Maybe this is one reason that I travel- because if I stayed in one place for any length of time people would start to think me a touch cracked.

So now that we had nothing but our empty bellies, thumbs, and a sunny albeit cold day, we set off walking down the road.

Loren Everly (LorenEverly.org) warns against leaving road junctions while hitch-hiking. He asserts that a man walking in the middle of nowhere with his thumb sticking out looks a little strange. “Who want to pick up someone that strange?” Loren once wrote.

Mira and I then discussed Loren’s warning and figured that we look a little strange no matter where we happen to be standing, and we felt like walking.

So by foot to Nimes we went.

Part 2 will be posted tomorrow.

More photos from France can be found at Photographs from the Open Road France Photos

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 21, 2007

Essay on Mandarin Chinese Language

The Dispersal of Language in China and the Creation of Standard Mandarin

The story of the Chinese language stretches far back into the annals of prehistory and is, therefore, deeply shrouded in the opaqueness of antiquity. Simply put, any attempt at understanding the Chinese language from a historical perspective is tantamount to entering into a vast museum at night with only a small flashlight to guide your way: only a slight portion of the riches are viewable and to proceed necessitates a large amount of guesswork and speculation. The modern dispersal of, and the variations within, the many forms and dialects of spoken Chinese is an equally complicated tale to tell, and is the result of over five thousand years of political maneuvering, migration, and geographical restraints. This investigation is but a meager attempt at shedding some light on the hidden riches behind the modern Chinese language.

All variants of Chinese are categorized into the Sino-Tibetan language family which, itself, is also lock within the deep vaults of antiquity. Modern linguist are confident that all Sino-Tibetan languages steam from a single common root language referred to as proto-Sino-Tibetan. This claim is made based upon the similarities between various aspects of all of the modern languages and dialects of the family as well as through the analysis of remnant bits and pieces of historic evidence of earlier Sino-Tibetan languages. “The relations between Chinese and other Sino-Tibetan languages are an area of active research, as is the attempt to reconstruct Sino-Tibetan.” The convergent point of Chinese from its Sino-Tibetan root is also being actively pursued by linguist. Although there is no written evidence to assist them in their research and every possible road currently is blocked by insufficient documentation or understanding exploration continues unabated. The modern languages of the Sino-Tibetan (and Tibeto-Burman, which falls under the same moniker) language family consist of all variants of Chinese, Kamarupan, Himalayish, Qiangic, Jingpho-Nungish-Luish, Lolo-Burmese-Naxi, Karenic, and Baic.


To continue reading this article please go to: Dispersal of Language in China

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 21, 2007

Retirement Homes in India

The New World Looks Ahead, Not Back
The elderly left behind with their times in the new India

We piled into a mini-bus and took off through the traffic wretched, exhaust poisoned streets of Bangalore. It took us over an hour to get to the outskirts of the city where we came upon the retirement home. We pulled into a long driveway and rode passed a cluster of workers assembling a new complex of buildings. An elderly man, who was the manager of the retirement home, came up to me and offered a greeting that sounded something like, “Welcome to Shanty-town!” I just laughed and looked forward to a rather humorous time talking to India’s dispossessed elderly.

In India, it is traditionally an abomination to disassociate oneself from family obligation, and the young, with scarce exceptions, take care of their parents when they reach old age. This is the grand model of family reciprocity that once was prevalent throughout the world- parents take care of their kids when they are young and, in turn, they are taken care of by them when they become elderly. It is a relatively simple system that makes complete sense; but, somewhere in the great influx of everything western and the burying of everything that is Indian, segments of the Indian population has begun bypassing this time-honored kin arrangement. Too many work obligations and a way of living that the elderly oftentimes seem to find despicable has cause many of India’s old to seek refuge in retirement homes, such as the one that we were visiting.

We tentatively entered the main courtyard of the complex and in the center of which was a large octagonal pavilion, beneath which was plastic lawn chairs arranged in ‘panelist’ formation (there were a small number of chairs set up in a line in front of a whole bunch of seats in multiple rows facing them). We did not know what we were in for and it made us giggle profusely. We sat down in the front row of chairs and waited for something to happen; luckily for us, nothing did. So we just sat there, and, eventually, our self-parodying jokes even dried up. Soon it began to rain and we got the impression that we weren’t so special after all. Really, who wants to speak with a bunch of white kids from the U.S.A. anyway? I don’t.


But soon our uncomfortable wondering was terminated by Manager-man, and he told us to follow him over to an area on the edge of the courtyard; which we did. We took refuge from the rain under the eave of one of the rooms. The rain continued falling real hard; Manager-man told us that the old folks though that we brought it with us. I could only wish; as any way out of this encounter would have been welcomed at this point. But nope, we were just beginning our visit. Manager-man soon turned on a small transistor radio which bellowed forth an amazingly loud sound. He put it on an Indian rap station, of course. So we were ten university kids from America standing in an Indian old folk’s home listening to rap music, which was turned up loud enough for the entire complex to hear. So we danced (a little).


After an extended time of jiving in this spectacle, we were lead over to the main dining area of the complex. Manager-man was at the lead carrying the still loudly rapping radio, and we follow along after him rather meagerly. We soon set up shop in the dining area and sat down to wait for whatever would come our way. And who would have guessed? Old-people began to slowly filter in to find out what the hell were doing in their little community.


I tried at first to abscond into the small sea of friends who were sitting at a table all together. Then, I got the feeling that I should probably make use of this opportunity and find out something about this big old India; so I tried to say “hello” to an old woman who was walking near me. She walked right on by without even noticing me or my friendly advance. I laughed, said, “fuck it,” grabbed some tea, and went over to sit by a couple old ladies who were huddled in a corner. They were an interesting looking couple and the elder had a beard that was comparable to my own. I began talking to them and found out that they were mother and daughter and neither had anybody in the world except each other. I did not know if I should have been touched or empathetic. Anyway, all personal confusion aside, I had a bit of small talk with them prior to turning around and finding a solo old chap in the corner of the dining area.


Figuring that I may have a more involved conversation with a fellow of my own gender, I began talking to him. He seemed to be pleased to speak with me and told me a little about his life and present situation. He lived out his younger days in Mysore and was an accountant. He seemed to have a good deal of civic pride for his city and told be about its’ artisan tradition and urged me to visit. I then began asking him about his family and inquiring about the circumstances that lead him to the old-folks home. He told me that his wife had died but he still had one son. His son was in the military and was stationed in the north of India and, henceforth, could not care for him. He was also all alone in the world, and did not mention any other deep family or friend ties. The old-folk’s home seemed the best option to him; at least he could shoot the sit with people of his own generation, relax a little, and have his meals prepared for him. He did not seem too upset about his situation but, from the engaging way that he spoke to me, I could tell that he really missed the company of others and, probably, his family. I soon said a temporary good-bye to him and went over to a table of elderly Indian women and few of my female friends.


I sat down, helloed everyone, and introduced myself. After this initial introduction the conversation seemed to wan a little; so I took the lead as asked one of the women to tell me a story. “The story of your life,” is what I asked for. This got things going, and after a few moments of thinking the woman launched into a tale. She said that she grew up during the time that England occupied India and that she could remember all of the vestiges of their occupation. During this time, she said that there were not many opportunities for women but, at her grandmother’s prompting, she entered into the schooling system. This was a very rare action for a woman to take, and she was evidently very much ahead of her time. After completing secondary school, she entered into nursing school and graduated with the proper credentials to pursue this profession. She did this for an extended period of time before she took a job as a teacher in an all-girls high school in Bangalore. She became the principal of this school and still participates in its administration.


I then began questioning her as to why and how she ended up in the old-folks home, as well as her feelings on the ‘westernizing’ India. Her mood became a drear, and she went on to tell us that she ended up in the nursing home because her son was a ‘modern’ man and did not respect the time-honed ways of her Indian traditions. She said that when she lived with his family they quarreled continuously, and that their mind-sets were not of the same times. I then asked her about what she thought of call-center employees and especially women in the industry. She seemed to try to hold back her true feelings on this but she expressed enough to indicate that she thought that these new industries were having a disastrous effect upon Indian culture. She spoke with distain when she said that, “People today make more money but they also spend more. They do not save. They do not listen to the lessons of the old. They have nothing.” This seemed to sum up the feelings of all of the residence in the old-folks home about the new generation of Indians.


But the old woman’s reactions to the India’s ‘westernizing’ movement did not fully sit well with me. She, herself, was a progressive woman of her times; she sought education, employment, and a higher social status in a society where women traditionally did not undertake such ventures. I wondered where she drew the line between what she did and what young men and women are doing today in India’s IT industry. But as I thought about this it became apparent that, while the old woman sought the surface vestiges of an unconventional role, she still kept the traditions of her culture close to her heart. She physically filled positions in society that were uncommon for a woman, but she did so in a manner that would not greatly disrupt her culture- she made sure that the substance of traditional India was passed down to her kids and, thereby, ensured that she did her part in the preservation of her culture.
This is not so today, as was obvious from her description of her son’s household. When I asked her if her son would pass on the same Indian traditions as she did to him, all she could do was toss her hands up in the air in defeat. She knew that the generational chain of cultural transmission would end at her son. It was all over, her heartfelt traditions were gone in the wind.


To lighten the mood I asked if any of the residents could sing any old-time folk songs. One woman, who remained quietly attentive throughout the conversation as she did not speak English, eagerly began singing a Mirabai song. She sang passionately and was nearly crying; we all were. She sang for us an ancient song that she learned from her fore-bearers, as they did from their fore-bearers, as they did from their fore-bearers into infinitum. I sat and though about ancient folk-knowledge and how it is dying the world over. This woman sat before me and provided a link into the past- to another world where people learned their livelihood from their parents, folk-tales from grandparents, and measured their world by journeys on foot. This is a world that is fast disappearing, and I felt blessed to be in the presence of one of its’ last cries, lasts songs, last dying appeals. Where are we going? Why?


As I write this I am listening to fireworks that are exploding outside my Bangalore flat. With well trod expectations, they burst forth beautiful colors with a boom; but they only last for a brief moment, and then they are gone. As such will be the accumulation of India’s great leap forward. I guarantee you India; putting all of your long tried family traditions into the firework rocket to explode will leave you with nothing. Take warning, is all I have to say to you, take warning, there is nothing behind the facades of the west. This I know, as do the people of the old-folks home. “This will not last,” they told me, “This cannot last.”


*Written in the autumn of 2006 in Bangalore, India

Wade from www.VagabondJourney.com
Anduze, France
December 21, 2007

Technology in Southern India

“Smoke is an indication of work . . . therefore, we are proud of our smoke.”
Reactions to the thoughtless acquisition and utilization of introduced technology in Southern India.

“Developing countries must not and will not allow themselves to be distracted from the imperatives of economic development and growth by the illusory dream of an atmosphere free from smoke or a landscape innocent of chimney stacks.”
-A.K.N. Reddy

In A.K.N. Reddy’s essay, “Technology, Development, and the Environment: An Analytical Framework,” he asserted that modern societies are developing and utilizing technologies that are perilous to their environmental and social ecosystems without recognition of the inherent risks. He also addresses how the technologies of the developed world are, “. . . in the process of massive transfer to the developing world,” and the increased degradation that these societies have undergone as a result. In response, I intend to address the essay’s major points, as well as apply them to my surface observations of the impact that such technologies have had on Southern India.

Reddy began his essay with a synopsis of the major criticism against modern technology. He first divided these criticisms into three categories- environmental, economic, and social- and then applied them separately to fit the particular contexts of developed and the developing countries. In my use of Reddy’s framework in application to my observations of Southern India, I have allowed the initial three criticism classes to stand, but I have omitted the later distinction; as I believe that, in the intervening years since Reddy’s article was written (1979), the impacts of modern technology have had similar impacts (on a varying scale) on both sets of societies.

The first of Reddy’s criticisms focused on the environmental impacts of modern technology. He wrote that the influx of such technology has had a horrendous impact on the natural world and this, in turn, has not, “. . . resulted in an environment more conducive to the physical and mental well-being of man.” Reddy goes on to say that the modern technologies which humans have created and are currently implementing on a mass scale are threatening us in all aspects of our lives. He states that, “. . . with the increasing deployment of modern technology, man’s welfare has been threatened by the escalating levels of pollution- pollution of the air that he breathes, the water that he drinks, the food that he eats, the quietness that he needs, and the beauty of nature that he enjoys.”

The above statements in regard to the subsequent environmental impact of modern technology are readily apparent to anyone who has ever tried to venture down Bangalore’s traffic packed streets. The shear amount of automobiles, rickshaws, and busses have long ago exceeded the city’s carrying capacity, and it regularly takes over an hour to travel what would otherwise be a short journey. I would speculate that it would be much quicker to walk within the city rather than use public transport if it were not for the fact that it regularly takes over ten minutes to simply cross a street. Another effect of this traffic influx is that the air is completely choked with automobile exhaust. During rush hour the exhaust cloud is so thick that it often times becomes difficult to see through it to the other side of the street.

Bangalore’s exhaust forms a thick blanket over the entire city and its presence is ever-present- its smell, taste, and grit constantly barrage one’s sensory faculties. These emissions cause lungs to ache and many of the city’s residents often wake at night gasping for breath. The effects of long-term exposure to this pollution can scarcely be fathomed.

The next criticism that Reddy acknowledges has to do with the fact that new technologies cause economic disparities which impact all spheres of industrializing society. In a culture that is centered upon modern technology, the ability to access it is absolutely necessary for an individual to be able to participate in the macro-economy. In order for one to be able to access the new technologies they must be a member of the particular wealthy and comfortable classes who, essentially, control it. This in turn causes major divisions between the haves- who use new technologies to their ever increasing advantage- and the have nots- who are outside of the technological pail. Reddy wrote, “and thus, one comes to the next turn of the spiral . . . the increased inequality resulting from the initial unequal access to the new technologies stimulates the development of further advances in technology which will then accentuate the inequality even more. This intensity of class divisions also manifests itself in the dispersal of resources. In a society that has profit as its primary aim, far more emphasis is placed upon the moneyed (technological) minority at the exclusion of the poorer (technology deficient) majority. This grossly unequal dichotomy causes, “. . . technology to respond more avidly to the needs of the rich while assigning lower priority to the needs of those who exert weaker demand.” Henceforth, the wealthy are now able to maintain their historic dominance over the resources of the world through their access to technology.

In Bangalore, the unequal distribution of technological access and the resulting class disparities is demonstrated with exceeding bluntness. The purveyor of wealth in this city is the information technology industry, and access to technological knowledge is necessary to reap the benefits of this economic sector. Throughout Bangalore, huge IT skyscrapers rise out of stick and stone slums, the doors of business that cater to the technological classes are guarded against the intrusion of outsiders, and the complexes of the technological elite are walled off so that they cannot even be viewed, let alone accessed, by the commoner in the streets. The trickle-down effect does not seem to operate here, as money seems to stay within class sanctioned cyclic rounds; upper-class shops and restaurants for upper-class individuals, lower-class ones for the lower-class. In India, more than most other countries, it is access to technology that allows one to obtain and maintain affluence; class is now not only maintained my social lines but by technological ones as well. This dichotomy between the upper and lower classes seems to have created two completely separate spheres of Indian society which are developing away from each other at an ever increasing pace. The culture, beliefs, and, most pertinently, experiences of the technology class are quickly becoming so radically different from that of traditional, rural India that social upheaval is eminent.


The final criticism which Reddy makes is that introduced modern technologies carry with them major social consequences for developing nations. Again, the primary focus of his argument was on the class aspects of this issue and how access to technology is a major point of contention between various levels of social strata. He pointed out that, even though the benefits of technology are out of reach for the poor, they still have, “to live cheek by jowl with its unpleasant features such as pollution.” Reddy expands his criticism by stating that modern technology changes the face of labor by introducing mechanistic means of mass-production which cause the depreciation of traditional craftsmanship. Inherent to the introduction of new technologies, employees who manufacture goods no longer need to possess any strong base of knowledge or skill; as their role is reduced to that of machine.

Under this new system of industrial production, “only a few [workers] are required to possess a high degree of intellectual capability and/or manual skills, while the barest minimum of intelligence and dexterity is expected from the vast majority of the working force. To this majority, ‘soul destroying, meaningless, mechanical, monotonous, moronic work is an insult to human nature . . .’” The extended result of this is employment that is neither particularly difficult nor desirable and the creation of a sharp division between work and leisure time. This division of time is in direct contrast to the traditional manner of production, in which work was also a livelihood.


This degradation of work is also clearly evident in Bangalore. Many of the top jobs in this city are in the IT sector and, while they necessitate advanced degrees and evidence of learning, they are incredibly basic. In fact, in western countries, these jobs are only occupied by people who have the barest minimum of education and skills. It is India’s finest, most educated, youth who are engaging upon IT careers that can neither stimulate nor educate them any further. The social impacts of having such large numbers of highly educated people engaged in the most base of professions can only be speculated. But I feel that these effects can potentially seep deep down into the educational institutions of India. For where exactly is the impetus to educate people in preparation for moronic employment? I do not know.


A.K.N. Reddy’s essay very keenly strikes the criticisms of modern technology right on the head. Although he authored it nearly thirty years ago, his warnings remain as pertinent today as they ever did; especially for developing nations such as India. As I have attempted to demonstrate, many of his speculations about how industrializing countries would absorb modern technology have actually occurred, and India is quickly becoming the wasteland that Reddy prophesized. Most importantly, Reddy’s writings force us to take a proverbial step back to take a look at where our society is going; they make us to realize that we do not haveto destroy our ecosystem to survive, that we do not have to work menial jobs, that we canquestion the broader impacts of our collective actions. Who wants to wait ten minutes just to cross the street? Who wants to be constantly poisoned by exhaust fumes? Who wants to live in a deeply bi-furcated society? Who wants to live in a world without forests, pure water, and fresh air? Really, who? Then I must ask, in the spirit of R.K.N. Reddy, why are we doing this to ourselves?

*Written in the Autumn of 2006

Wade from www.VagabondJourney.com
Anduze, France
December 21, 2007

Tribals of Arunachal Pradesh

A Respectable Development?
The Tribals of Arunachal Pradesh: Then and Now

“. . . we are faced with the phenomenon of a rapid material, social, and educational development of a tribal society which has found a place in the modern world without so far losing its identity as a distinct ethnic entity.”
-Christoph Von Furer-Haimendorf (approx. 1980)

From time immemorial the until the later half of the twentieth century the people of the highlands of Arunachal Pradesh have lived in almost complete isolation and autonomy from the main body of Indian culture, economics, and civilization. But in 1944 and 1945 the Indian government began a policy of establishing contact with and administration of the tribes that lived in the Kameng and Subansiri districts of the region. At initial inception, the new government policies were very pro-tribal and by the mid 1980's the communities of the region were flourishing by the standards of the dominant global paradigm. My interest in writing this paper is to discover how this initial blooming has held up in the face of the globalization policies of the twenty first century, as well as to analyze how traditional tribal culture and values have been altered through increased contact with outside peoples, ideas, and systems.
Throughout this research I have taken liberty to clump all of the cultural groups of Arunachal Pradesh into one broad group vaguely labeled as “tribal” (I will provide a definition of this term subsequently). I have done this for the reason of clarity; as repeated cross references between group labels would invariably lead to confusion and the ultimate dilution of the point of this enquiry: which is not necessarily the specifics of any particular tribe, but a general synopsis of the changes that traditional tribal communities have undergone as a result of contact with industrialized society. Where it had become a necessity to distinguish one community from another I have done so but, again, my main focus is on the region as a whole.

I have chosen the tribals of the mountains of Arunchal Pradesh as my research subjects