The strangest part about being back in Canada is that it doesn't feel bizarre at all. In fact, sometimes I wonder if I ever even left, if the four months that I spent abroad were actually nothing more than an incredibly vivid dream.

All the "hard core" travellers I know had warned me about the severe culture shock that I'd experience once I arrived back to a home that, they said, wouldn't even feel like a home anymore. But that's not how things played out - once I got back, I didn't feel out of place in the clean, incredibly well-organized streets and malls, and I didn't feel like something was missing because a thousand smells and noises weren't bombarding me from all directions.

Nothing had struck me as unusual about walking down the street and being stared at, yelled at, asked for money ("Apu [meaning 'sister'], one taka!"), or asked where I'm from ("Madam, which country?").

I didn't find myself aching for the simple pleasure of taking a rickshaw ride around the neighbourhood, I didn't miss haggling over prices at the markets, and I didn't crave the sugary sweet tea that was sold by the vendors at virtually every street corner. 

And that's what shocked me. Why wasn't I feeling more out of place? Why didn't I miss the things, the ways of life, that I had learned to love? Instead of viewing this rapid adjustment as a gift, I saw it as an affront to my entire experience: Sure, I have some amazing memories and friendships that I know I'll maintain, and I really did feel like I'd made a contribution to the NGO that I'd been working for. But it wasn't enough - how could I spend four months of my life in such an enormously different part of the world and come back relatively unchanged? I felt like I'd not only let down myself, but also all of the people who had encouraged me to embark on "a life-changing journey."

But, gradually, smaller ideas that I hadn't noticed while I had been waiting for the anxiety and disorientation of reverse culture shock to hit, began to catch my attention: like what a beautiful thing it was to be able to drink water straight from the tap. And suddenly, my bed was the most toe-curlingly comfortable bed in the world. I was now dazzled by the size and almost nonsensical range of selection in supermarkets (have you ever noticed how many bathroom cleaning supplies there are? How many different products do you need to clean a bathtub anyway?). And I couldn't wait to go back to my pre-trip habit of buying a coffee in the morning, knowing that those few dollars could have fed an entire family, no matter how many times I reminded myself that that sort of thinking was irrational and hypocritical.

And bigger changes in my patterns of thought also started to make themselves known: travelling to countries where religion shades almost every aspect of daily life has made me examine my own religious beliefs and question the assumptions about life, death, people, and purpose that underlie them. I make much more of an effort to keep up-to-date about events that are unfolding in other parts of the world, rather than just gobbling down the most easily accessible news stories about North America. These acts alone have both drastically improved my understanding of "global affairs" while at the same time making me realize just how much I don't know (enough to fill a black hole).

And perhaps most importantly, rather than only feeling guilt over the poverty and lack of opportunity that face the people of developing countries, I now feel ownership.  I may not be able to solve those problems in their entirety, but that doesn't excuse me from trying to alleviate them.

I'm now working full-time for a management consulting firm here in Calgary, but I spend much of my free time volunteering for local organizations that focus on international development. I'm also considering graduate programs in development studies to prepare for entering a career in the development sector, although exactly what I'll be doing - which specific part within the sector I'll be working in - I have yet to decide.

I've seen for myself the inefficiency, excessive bureaucracy, corruption, and more, that exists within that sector, but its tremendous potential for affecting change and progress (or, in other words, "development") also inspires me in a way that nothing else ever has.

And I realize now that, more than anything, that sort of inspiration is exactly what I'd been looking for, and what everyone who'd supported me on this trip had been hoping I'd find. And the fact that I don't feel like this "mission," my mission, is complete only means that it was successful.

India can only be described as a smorgasbord - of sights, sounds, smells and tastes, with a range that's broad enough to please travellers with the pickiest of palates. Since finishing my internship and arriving in India, I've seen the posh high rises and sprawling slums of Mumbai, tasted the tantalizing masala dosas and idlis of Chennai and Bangalore, and gazed in awe at the majestic forts and vast deserts of Rajasthan. And that's just a meagre sampling of the many experiences that India has to offer.

But regardless of how many photos I snap, I know that, ultimately, my memory of India, and in fact, of any place that I visit, will be centred on the people I meet and my interactions with them. In thinking about that, I've lost count of the number of times I've met people on the street, in the market, on the train, etc. and been treated as if I were a long-lost friend - invited to share a meal with their family, shown around their neighbourhood, and given some sort of small gift just for "awarding" them with my company. The same applies to the all the instances when I've been even slightly lost or confused - someone would inevitably appear, sooner rather than later, to point me in the right direction, and often, personally escort me there; Granted, some of the treatment I've received can be attributed to curiosity - an Indian who can't speak the national language, travelling solo, seems to be a guaranteed crowd drawer. But that reason doesn't account for all of it - for example, the genuine interest in their voices when they ask questions about me and my family, the sincerity of their warm wishes and invitations to return again soon, and their refusal to accept either thanks or payment in return for their hospitality.

It's made me think about the term "less developed country," or LDC for short, that's often used to describe countries like India and Bangladesh where vast portions of the population don't have their basic needs met. In terms of standard of living, developed countries obviously win, but what about kindness, caring for one's neighbour, and performing unselfish acts? All of those are traits that I've seen personified over and over again in this part of the world, but sadly, seem to be disappearing from the Western world, where the name of the game is about looking out for No. 1. I hate to point the finger at capitalism, since it's already blamed for so many of the wrongs in the world, and also because it's what's fuelling India's and Bangladesh's growth into increased prosperity. But it seems obvious when I compare my experiences in these two very different parts of the world that, although the LDCs are obviously lagging in many important areas, the developed societies have also lost something in their drive toward material wealth - it's difficult to put a label on what exactly that "something" is; perhaps the best way to describe it is a powerful sense of community that extends beyond just immediate family or friends, and even past the town or city borders.

This isn't meant as a condemnation - I'm as guilty of the "don't even know your neighbour" phenomenon as anyone else. But I know that when I get back home, I will make an effort to change that. Because, just like the end goal of development should be focused on improving people's quality of life - a measure that has many dimensions - I've learned that connecting with people, whether they're right next door or halfway across the world, can't help but enrich the quality of mine.

Image gallery from Raksha and Helen 

There's no doubt that my time here in Bangladesh has been exhilarating, exciting, and inspiring on a multitude of levels. But I can't deny that this country, for all its captivating people and places, has taken a toll on me. Beyond hunger and thirst, past disease and deprivation, I've seen the loss of dignity and hope that comes with the grinding poverty that haunts 40% of this country's population, or 156 million people (according to 2005 World Bank statistics). I see it every night in the prostitute who is a single mother of two and "sells her wares" on the corner across from our building, charging a humiliating 300 taka per customer (less than $5 Canadian). I see it every morning on the walk to work as I pass countless beggars: the wrinkled old woman with incredibly thick glasses, who must be at least 70 years old but has lost both legs and so is forced to drag herself along the sewage-ridden street with her hands, and in the young boy who has been burned so badly that he barely has any skin left. I was overwhelmed with it in a cruelly ironic moment as we left a restaurant with air conditioning that was almost too cold and uniformed waiters: on the sidewalk was a pregnant woman and her son (no more than 8 years old and naked) sprawled on the sidewalk, and whether they were sleeping or dead was a question that none of us had the courage to ask.

I argue with myself everyday about how anyone can possibly make a meaningful difference in the midst of such suffering? Whom do you help first - the prostitute selling her body, the old woman with no legs, the pregnant woman without food for herself or her children, or the young boy with no skin? And given harshly limited resources, what's the best way to help? Ideally, you'd give all those who need it, access to education, medical care, clean water and sanitation facilities, while ensuring that there are proper incentives for the recipients to actually make use of such services. The creation of jobs which make it possible for individuals and families to sustain and expand these benefits is also essential. These measures are the bare minimum, and don't even address the underlying causes of poverty. Dealing with the deeper problems, such as widespread corruption in the government and police force, a lack of lucrative natural resources, and severe vulnerability to natural disasters (all of which apply to Bangladesh's case) is much more challenging.

The massive scope of the issues that face this country on its road to development have alternately made me feel scared, discouraged and dis-empowered. I still have no clear answers, no for-sure feeling about whether almost half the nation's people will manage to pull themselves out of poverty within the next 10, 50 or 100 years, and no sense about whether the corruption that is so pervasive here will subside. But the country has seen change, strong and uplifting, in many areas: in the development of the garment industry which has provided jobs (leading to 6% average GDP growth over the last six years), in the effectiveness of the NGO sector which has improved the lives of thousands through providing food, education, clean water and credit, in life expectancies that have risen as maternal mortality and birth rates have dropped. And I see the end result of these changes, and that's what makes me believe that the path to development is more than a wild goose chase: when I meet people who grew up with seven siblings but have chosen to only have one or two children themselves, when I see the delight on the faces of children and adults as the NGO that I'm working for successfully tests out the new pipe and filtering system that will provide the 700+ slum residents with clean drinking water, when my room-mates and I cook noodles and play cartoons for a gang of skinny street kids every week so that they can - for at least a few hours a week - have the chance to actually be kids.

Moments like those don't make me think that the challenges of development are any easier or smaller, but it does make me realize that progress on a smaller scale is still progress, and is still meaningful in a way that dollar figures and statistics can't possibly capture. And more than anything else, that's what has made my time here truly eye-opening.

Image gallery from Raksha and Helen 

Before arriving in Bangladesh, I was familiar with the basics of microfinance: that it involved giving small loans to people who were too poor to qualify for normal loans from regular banks, that the model had been pioneered by Dr. Muhammad Yunus here in Bangladesh over 30 years ago and, that the repayment rates were incredibly high, and overall, the concept was seen as being highly successful in helping people climb out of poverty. 

But after three months spent working for an organization whose core program is in providing microcredit to the rural poor, I've come to learn that the reality of microfinance is more intricate and dense than I'd realized.

But before offering my opinion about the industry (and make no mistake, it's a gargantuan, growing industry with over 30 million borrowers and 175 billion taka (about $2.8 billion Canadian), in loans outstanding in Bangladesh alone), I'll first state my disclaimer: In no way do I believe that a) a single blog post can do justice to the topic, and b) that the amount of time and exposure that I've actually had to the microfinance sector has been enough to give me a thorough understanding of this tricky topic. But luckily, I've had the chance to visit several villages that were populated almost exclusively with microcredit clients and interview some of them. On top of that, I've also been able to pick the brains of field staff and managers with years, sometimes decades, of experience in the field.

The biggest lesson I've learned is that microfinance is at least as much about business as it is about philanthropy. Although the microfinance institutions, or MFIs, take a risk by lending to people with almost no collateral, the high interest rates they charge - sometimes as high as 20% - can have the inverse effect of what's intended: Rather than giving the poor a hand to help them out of poverty, having to pay such high interest can prevent the families from being able to build their own savings, keeping them reliant on loans forever, or at least, for the foreseeable future. The longer they're on loans, the more money the MFI makes. The interest rates seem especially unnecessary when you consider the fact that some of the larger MFIs, such as the Grameen Bank and BRAC, had surpluses amounting to more than a million dollars in recent years. As one Bangladeshi man put it, the MFIs are often seen as doing nothing more than "drinking the people's blood."

There are other criticisms surrounding MFIs, including the fact that they receive lots of money from the government and international aid agencies but portray themselves as self-sustaining, along with the fact that not all poor people have the "entrepreneurial drive" that would allow them to use the loans they receive to build self-sufficient businesses (a key goal of microfinance).

But encouragingly, it appears that better models of microfinancing are emerging. As an example, Food for the Hungry (FH), another international NGO that has operations in Bangladesh, allows the poor to essentially borrow on their own savings. Participants of its program are organized into groups, which then decide how much they want its members to save every week (usually no more than a dollar a week per person). From these savings, the group can then disburse loans to any of its members. This innovative approach has several advantages:

1)      Since it's the members' own money at stake, the group is unlikely to give loans that it doesn't think can be paid back, so the chance of default is low.

2)      The members know that if they default on their loans, they're not just merely an annoyance to a bank that has seemingly bottomless coffers to begin with. More likely, they're taking food out of the hands of their neighbours, relatives or friends. Again, this makes the chance of default quite low.

3)      The group profits from the interest that members pay on the loans. Eventually, the savings pool, supplemented by the profit from interest, can become large enough that either larger loans can be given, or the account can be closed out, providing a significant return for the group members.

4)      Dignity and empowerment, for both clients and staff. Since the organization never touches the money, there's no need for debt collectors to chase down their clients and the self-determining nature of the groups (i.e. the group itself decides how much money to lend and what interest rate to charge) truly empowers the members, because it's exclusively their own money and effort that's allowed them to escape lives of impoverishment.

Despite the criticisms that it's received, I continue to believe that microfinance, while certainly having its fair share of drawbacks and glitches, is a critical part of Bangladesh's development and that the poor of the country are better off with it than without. After all, even if we agree that the MFIs are about business, not philanthropy, no business can survive without demand for its product, and the 30 million borrowers in this country represent a demand that's not going away any time soon.

"Well, when they see a black person in Canada, do they not run after them and shout out 'African!'?"

Speechless. If there is a word that describes my sentiments since I arrived in Nairobi, Kenya, "speechless" would be it. I have experienced more in the past few weeks in Kenya than I ever would in my ordinary university life in Canada.

Before I came here, I listened to endless "horror stories" about Africa and Nairobi - be it sanitary conditions, security, or cultural differences. I embarked on my journey expecting nothing, except the unexpected.  However, not being easily surprised definitely does not equate with indifference. It simply means I view the events around me with mild amusement, perhaps even due to over-suppression of my original emotions.

I work in the slum of Mathare in Nairobi. It is allegedly the third largest slum in Africa, as more than half a million people live there. It is difficult to describe the slums; one must experience them in person. However, I can start with the overwhelming scent. I think the smell of the slums is a perfume-maker's nightmare - a blend of garbage and human sweat and excrements. There is a small bridge over a stream of black water contaminated with feces, with mountains of garbage, and people brewing alcohol in giant, rusted tin cans. There are no houses, only shelters made of panels of tin. Families of five or more live in small, cramped spaces. How small? Imagine your elementary school classrooms, and quarter that land. Forget toilets and plumbing facilities, people do their  businesses wherever, which is part of the reason the water is so contaminated. I saw a man buy a sliver of toothpaste for two shillings, the equivalent of three cents. The slum is endless in sight, leaving the most idealistic and hopeful individual with a lingering taste of garbage, poverty, and cruel reality.

Which leaves one to wonder "what can I do to make a difference?"

In contrast to the poverty in the slums, is the bustling town centre of Nairobi. International, high-end hotels such as Hilton and the Stanley - which charges 1,000 shillings for a hour of Internet use, while the cyber café across the street charges 1 shilling per minute. Business professionals in suits hurry down streets cramped with people, cars, and privately-owned vans serving as buses called matatus. The traffic is constantly insane, arguably so are the matatus drivers that swerve between lanes of opposing traffic in an attempt to get ahead. "Hawkers" populate the sides of the streets as they sell goods on their blankets. They also stir up mini-riots periodically as they throw stones as the police who try to chase them away, who in turn throw tear-gas bombs.

Regardless of slum or city centre, though, one thing is common. Wherever I go, I encounter shouts of "mzungu!" or "chong chong ching chong," due to my lighter skin and my Asian appearance. I still chuckle in amusement whenever someone shouts out these words to me, because I am not sure how I should respond - should I break into song and dance? I think I am starting to understand how visible minorities feel. People almost always automatically treat me differently, sometimes positively, sometimes negatively. For example, while all Kenyans have to pass through security checks at the Hilton, I go with no questions asked; because of my skin colour. At the same time, the "hawkers" will always try to rip me off, and the children will always stare in shock at me; because of my skin colour. At one point, another Dutch intern and I jokingly remarked, "Clearly, we do not deserve names! We are merely mzungus." The director of the organization we work for then replied with the quote at the beginning of this post.

All of this said, I must stress that Nairobi is a beautiful city. It is undergoing a period of rapid development, and like most cities going through the same process, it experiences side effects such as polluted streets, occasional chaos, and disparity between rich and poor. However, in the midst of change, there is always progress and hope. There are people working on ensuring environmental sustainability while maintaining economic growth; educating the public on sexual and reproductive health; and teaching the concept and skills of entrepreneurship to empower youths to step out of the slums. These are only some of the projects I have encountered in my brief stay here.

I am happy to say that while I did feel despair and shock, my speechlessness has turned into a shrug with the lovely French phrase, "C'est la vie." This is the reality. Accept it, and make it better.